What’s That?
Night bleating out its last rights?
We asked too little of the gnaw
to know for sure. Still on Sundays
I argue with Saint Peter in the park.
Without a dog, I look like a woman
without. Don’t lie. You’ve heard it too,
the ice quaking from above. This time
next year, everything you’ll ever love
will arrive; whole enough to pass on
but not down. What I mean is,
I’d be a good plant mother if orchids
were administered by the state
but I don’t know what I mean by that.
Simon says it something to do
with sticking to your guns, even the toys.
Simon says a lot of things like that.