funky poems and I will, but not now, because
funky poems are hard poems and this
kind of poetry here is easier and more likely
to cause my mind to wander. I keep thinking
of the beasts in the field and the soil in
the earth. I also think of the yolk in the egg
and the egg in the belly of the alligator. I can
imagine the air lifting the leaves and the
trees teeming with certain grubs. I keep
thinking of the shellfish in the sea
and the water that it takes to move
a large, large ship through the ocean. I am
barely thinking of the girl now. Barely
imagining how she forms words with her
mouth and with the words she forms
whole rotations and spins. Sometime,
in the dark volcano of clocks, something will
rise up and up and, like a bird or a
paper airplane, sail out of this joint, into
the box where the rest of us are waiting
with our tied, tiny hands and our gags.
