the park

a man wanders in circle & feeds the geese
who are not there. once, i turned into a pigeon
just to get out of a date i didn't want to go on.
i saw the person arrive at the park.
he looked around but found someone else
to kiss. relief that i had not caused too much sadness.
a park is one of those almost places.
the deer that come are confused as to
whether or not they are in the future
or the past. a child runs so wild
he turns into a red tail hawk. haven't you ever
blinked & found yourself at the highest point
in one of the grandfather trees? i have
& up there i have heard angels gossip about us.
they are saying, "they think they're happy."
i do think i am happy at least for the most part.
as happy as you can be at park in the middle
of an empire of ammunition worship & jesus puppets.
i do not argue with the angels though. 
instead i go down the creek because at a park
there is always a creek. the water that sings 
about earrings & fingers. dip my own in there.
remember turning into a goldfish as a child
& dying just to get it over with.
at the park everyone is a family & no one is.
it is a reunion or else a collision. i want
to call everyone to a pavilion & say,
"let's celebrate my birthday." it is not 
my birthday but it could be if we all
wanted another confetti reason to celebrate.
the best parts of the park are where
you can pretend it is not a park. that you are
deep in the forest of wings. that no one
is going to find you for days. then, you glance
& accidentally there is a stoplight & there
is a man running away from the ghost
of his father. i would like to find
one of those perfect places & spit on the earth.
then wait for a dream house to grow.
it would not have to be large or even purple. 
just a little place to put my heart
in a jar by the bed. a tiny door to close
to block out the celestial chatter. 
i never want to leave the park. i transform 
back into a human. the man still wanders
in circles only now the geese are real 
& they have shopping bags they fill with silver.