The pilot is flying the
small white airplane in
circles, for the fun of it,
in the cloudy blue sky,

and below the black dog,
in the red car, is looking
out the window, barking
at nothing in particular,

and across the street
the banker in a gray suit
scurries, preoccupied by
a problem at the office,  

and in the apartment
above, there is only an
awareness, sitting on an
empty chair, breathing.

The verbs are living in
caves on mountain tops.

You can only call your-
self on the telephone.

The nouns are wearing costumes
to look like you, or the place

where you live, or the thing
that you bought recently.

Your mail is being spell-
checked by smiling burglars

who ply their trade by
strolling through the front door.

Adjectives have a dress code;
blue suit, white shirt, red tie.

Everywhere you sit there
is a whoopee cushion

that makes a long
repetitive mechanical laugh.

The old woman’s
gardener plants the
sapling in her
front yard. Then a
night of fierce winds
and rain. The new
tree remains intact.
You could write
a poem about that.

She wades in the
river teeming with
life, holding her
sandals above her
head, her bronze
face illuminated
by the brilliant
late afternoon sun.

My father was
a salesman, all
of his adult

life. But I don’t
know much about
him, really.

Old and ill, he
fell into a coma
for many days.

Then, suddenly
his mouth opened,
round and wide,

like this world.
And without a
word, he died.

How to navigate
civilization

in four steps:
Find a chair and

sit quietly.
Then, dismantle

the chair and use
the pieces to

build a ladder, for
a panoramic view.

Return to solid
ground, and

remake the chair.
Sit quietly.

Having toiled in the
garden, the young
woman sits in the
shade of an ancient
tree and sings a song
—as if serenading the
tulips and tomatoes.