my street is a party
walking towards the mountain
everyone’s home
the birds too
yelling at nightfall
woke up from big
party/no memory
thought I should write it all out
on one of our brown paper towels
driving the big van
in the little garden
flooded with the gray reality of circles
(birds then and now)
the other night of
heavy blankets
that old bedroom
but dank and wet
with pear dessert
teabags
clocking weird
pouring out
the closed window
my own heart beat
is too much
don’t know where
to put my hand
a star
the whole pretty
hand thing
again
and again
