Living on
the roof of
hell we tend
the flowers
that perfume
our sacred
interim home.

After carefully
observing us,

the monkey
declares, You

are certainly
not a part

of nature,
what are you?

Fish in
a tub
swimming
in circles.

I am standing with
five rolled-up pages
of poetry in my

hand, ready to lunge
forward and smash it
into oblivion, when

she says, Don’t ****
that fly. Can’t you
see it’s praying?

The green
grass is
wet from

rain. Her
elegant
footsteps

have left
their delicate
impressions.

He is a
yardstick,
a measure
of something.

He is a
body, something
worn like a
suit of clothes.

He is a
string of words,
a sentence
to be parsed.

He is an
individual,
a myth
that is told.

He is a vast
space,
a screen life
is projected on.

Just the outline
of the thing, the

stench of something
rotting somewhere,

the inexplicable
puddle of water in

the front hall closet,
but for some

a chance, like
the universe,

to emerge
from nothing.