Not
the first day. The sprinklers and the dogs,
The
blossoms where the bees crawled, and the night
Which
wasn’t quite the day because I saw
Less
of myself, which didn’t bother me.
Then
it grew hot. And windy just the same.
The
tree of knowledge only bore dried fruit;
The
columbine flourished, and the chiles made
Mad
bombers of the wasps. A chickadee
Drank
all the water in the collie’s bowl
And
fluttered like a wiffleball. I mailed
My
manuscript To Whom It May Concern,
No
one yet having been; but this had heat,
A
love triangle, scalene, sweat and skin.
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