PS: all along it was me.
From noise of dust motes rice grains pink with pesticide, pre-furniture—
gentle fistface, walk
into the shadow of the barn. How light + impatient you dried my
kid-hair by the tree-stump oven. I warmed your bearskin
while you upped the linden dust from between the floorboards.
And re: happy-sad, happy-sad—how did you know
this grasshopper would be bigger than the valley?
And if the cow eats clover and blows up its guts
how big a bang is that? Not to these shores,
blanket for star-watching. Here, some several hundred blue
lawnchairs
are rained on
in the quadrangle
of tall rust-colored projects. These objects need you,
and in needing you, they need me too:
the overgrown stuff’s all me, the gibberish and the slop.
+ dust.
To flying lay another grain on top of that pile is freedom.