I’m adjusting to minimum wage,
Green, but cold, gloves, scarf.
And bare feet—there is
No big mystery, Four-Eyes.
The cardinals flip as they
Climb an invasive vine,
Grazing on the stuff in the high neck
Of a tree.
It is as if, this evening, the dead are rising
From their graves, blood first.
The C is a moon.
And of course the O is always a moon.
But the S is one, too—
See the smoke of laughter
Climb that starry staircase, and
Fill in all those cosmic rooms with bent
Walls and blue windows...
This is where a dreamer’s letters all get answered.
And the canceled stamp has a rocket
Lodged in its lemony eye.
You get two chances every day, and
A lot of time to think about it.
The sun encourages work
The moon does nothing.
But, I dreamed about you: You were piling
Greens and olives in my arms. I was stubborn
But I didn’t say no, exactly.
People endure awful things just to learn the color of
Their own shameless moon.
