Oval angels
make math difficult
The leaves have turned white.
They know what that means
and don’t want to
talk about it.
On paper,
the universe is as dull as
a towel.
The universe as a theory
reminds me of an
old riverbed.
In practice,
it is a high, drunken girl
looking to get away.
The angels always
keep the music,
numbers just out of reach.
The moon casts a shadow
on my bed.
The cat scratches at the door.
It isn’t mine—
the cat or the door.
Splayed across my bed,
an ancient dream
just vaguely glossy.
In the well of his eyes
a songbird drowning,
his last note shaking
the earth like an aftershock
Carrying a cane,
he mocks old age
and then beats him with it.
The various compounds in his
organs like chasms of
darkness sewn up into life.
In his neighborhood
the children shirk their
playful duties
break all the rules of youth
by filing taxes
and reading Schopenhauer.
In the bushes,
a sharpened surprise
awaits him.
The serene beauty of creating and maintaining a home.
Miniature Moon 