the mornning-chatter birds
discuss what they think a stop sign means
while a stray cat rings a service bell
stuck to the torso of a tree.
how can i help you how can
i help you. i put a finger 
to the mouth of a turtle
& he bites off my digit
to the knuckle. who needs
a window when we have rain?
i spend my morning plugging 
all the holes in my body. 
a bandaide here-- a patch of glue
& some duct tape. even the moon
leaks fluid sometimes
& has to be mended. but yes
it is everyone's job
to make planteary fixes
here i am with just my hands
& my skin & the company
of the violin songs 
that make the sun blink open.
the night's carapice
crunches under a foot. 
i shake off the hooves of sleep.
what i want is a 
time machine of leaves
& vines to ask me 
what decade i'd like
to sleep in--i would say 
one without any boys at all. 
i want to see
if my gender holds up to scarcity.
a customer service man
knocks at the door
& i pretend to not be home.
i don't want to complain to him.
he works so so hard.
plus his uniform is sexy. he looks like
someone's dad.
what do you do
when you have so much to be happy for
but cannot find
a single grain 
to save yourself?
i tell my friends i'm doing
pretty good pretty 
good & what i mean is 
i am still alive in some corner
of my soup bowl. 
a spoonful of daylight
is enough for me.
leave a message
after the bird throats
& i will open the door one day
& we will talk in poems &
i will not make you sad
at all. 

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