sometimes the head is a thumb /
eyeless, mouthless, noseless nub /
of a fleshy pad leaning back /
as if to look up expecting to see /
the early evening moon between friction ridges /
I’m one in a million today /
more or less depending on how many /
did not wake up this morning /
there, there, there, somehow /
a small spot of joy breathing /
on the sidewalk /
then the wind picks up /
wrinkles on the lake /
looks like trying to remember /
effort everywhere rippling /
the treed hills, the back alleys /
the highways under construction, the small desk /
I believe in the tiny red nuthatch that just left /
off somewhere to cross his Kidron valley /
we move west /
regardless of our direction /
carving our own coffins /
with our tipped tongues /
the wood of the frame of
the house is softer than expected /
somehow the roof floats /
frightening the local news /
those who know know a roof is only that /
the old woman /
in the one room /
peels away the labels /
on things /
she gave out an autograph /
only once
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