On Being Simple

Language might trumpet itself (in syllabic disguise, leotard-spangled-legs of syntax) right past the armed guard (who at the time globed out snores from the dugouts of his nostrils.). But now I've felt the turn. Toward clarity. The sky was blue. We spoke this into microphones. Hawk took a rat off the highway guardrail. Daughter measured heaps in the rain. Unsold blouses creased in dumpsters. He came and drove the trash to be lit on fire later while a paid man watched. There were no magnifying glasses. This was the deep past, which is now, me legs crossed on the bed because when twice a week one says they’ll write a poem, they do it.