Some people live their lives to stockpile:
They amass grain silos of ramen
And basements full of bullets—
They’re going to be ready for the invisible tide.
But they’re not: the grain rots in a column and the gun
Powder dampens beneath the hail of magazines
And sandwich crusts—lives are lived
Upon the dampened plans for surviving.
I thought about it recently when I couldn’t sleep:
Feathers in the pillow struck out from the inside, the
Harder I twisted it—the harder I tried to find
The better they poked me in the eye.
It’s as if they were telling me something in death the goose couldn’t say while she