A whole galaxy may be squished
into the tuft of a pussy willow
and I’d never know the swaying reeds
were a communication from beyond.

When imagining great things, it’s so often
bridges or battles or cathedrals or
delicate mastery of limbs or rhymes
or it may be a brain larger than a whale’s eye.

I can’t decide how big the holes should be
because I haven’t narrowed down
what I should be capturing.

It’s been hard to hear
the song of grass and trees
over the din of teacups
and traffic and a sky full
of tormented birds.

I was uplifted
when the hawk captured the bunny;
it was equally satisfying
no matter whose side I was on.

Rusty swinging gate
trembling hands
swelling kisses
formica and coffee
blanket cave

screaming sunrise
the butler didn’t do it
potted plant
wooden table with book
sighing sunset

dusty scrolls
stone fire bread
thick socks
clutching tenderly
frosty window

counting
following nothing
humming
smiling regardless
uncapturing.

The sky is
a split gourd with pulp strewn about,
clouds / seeds / crazy bird flights –
are they laughing at our ineptitude?
We have no plans worth saving
and all that’s gooey
is comfort / revival / love poem
with much viscera and kisses.