“Kitchen tulips too red…”
Kitchen tulips too red,
daffodils too yellow
in this horizontal light. A dream
of our blue crystal shattering
at my touch. Dry air snaps with static,
I scribble a self-portrait
in orange crayon,
trace an outline of you
that won’t fit the page.
“We have learned nothing…”
We have learned nothing
from the songbirds.
You have brought me shiny bits
and baubles, a crow’s cache
of electronics and appliances, things
with instructions in six scripts.
Chainsaw, lawnmower. Winter tires
and summer too. In fact the whole car.
But not once have you danced,
and I have yet to hear you sing.
Ed. note: This is supplementary material for this review in The Rover.