Precision
Slime drooling with unrelenting precision
Flattening, with a concrete paver,
The ripples of this lake.
People were drinking air. Moving and
Moving on-
Top of the lake’s ripples, singing,
Performing Cirque du Soleil,
Unencumbered,
Through slime drooling with unrelenting precision.
We talked about heart-shaped glasses, adorning
Statues’ skulls with omnipresent wisdom,
And the ripples of this lake.
Away from the thorns and buildings
Is a little creature, green and scaly, emerging
From the slime, and drooling, with unrelenting precision. It
Scattered through the maze and
Scampered around a kitchen table. It even drank up the lake.
No more ripples.
Only slime, drooling with unrelenting precision.
On Chickens Crossing the Road
The first chicken analyzed
The gray, and oddly uneven terrain,
With the specific curiosity
Of a chicken who had always been in charge.
There was a gait
To its step. Regardless of situation
This chicken walked in
With a slight discomfort in the right wing
From sweeping away reality,
With little to no consequence.
The second chicken perches.
Observing the first, they realize,
Almost in time,
That consequence is inevitable.
So, this chicken waited,
And waited, until the cars stopped,
For a chance to fly to the other side.
More patient than the first,
This chicken keeps looking back. Moving forward,
And looking back.
The third chicken, we think, is the last.
Because three, a prime number, is enough.
Barely divisible by two
Three is a strange figure. It stands like
A liminal space
With a significant distance
From one and two.
Still, the third chicken jumps to keep up.
The one with the most lost
And most gained, this little chicken has real confidence.
It comes from an insistence on—something more
Than a tendency towards—
Breaking free.
The one in front,
Orating from the back,
Told her chickens to fly.
But the farmer was cruel and had a short temper.
Denver
The snow doesn’t stick the same way. Not to me, not to the ground.
It still falls though, slowly, cascading,
Coating the cars and streets and trees. The snow
Is burial, how it covers up death.
The dead squirrel on my runs, is this the last thing it saw?
I wish I were writing this. I would focus on menial tasks
Like binging seasons of Severance, but the
Small flakes of white halls of college and
Endless labyrinths of stuff evaporate, instantly.
The snow is rising from the floor, almost in perpetuity
