April 5th, 2020


Mild Peril

I might find a blueblack sky when I’m ready
to feel all the moments, not just the sleazy important ones.

To uncoil the wild little everything
inside this now, which I am crouching to fit into.
Three forty seven a.m. in the dooryard.

Providence. Resolve. Alcohol.
I am afraid of my dreams.
Maybe a mourning dove wheezes out of a hedge,
lungs throbbed by its own wings

(they build
bad nests

eggs often

slip out)

Stupid and faithful. I left fondness up to you.
And now, we’ll burn that bridge when we come to it.

I asked what is going to happen and he said it’s happening.