The attempt to obfuscate our already-obscure oblivion
is obviously a trick. Forget their lashes / ropes / eyes / sometimes I’m
singing until I pretend that the shower water on my face is tears / absurd certainty—
all our hurricanes are blind.
I feel like a gym floor when I miss you.
Scuff-spit adjectives of examples,
overdrawn well cavity, unbalanced paper fluttering
like it chased life down and pinned it with a thumb tack:
we are scatter-struck and windblown,
heads out of windows,
leaving imprints on the cement of the Internet, lest we forget
that once, we invaded,
poetry as a battle cry,
sonnet of scorched wind,
villanelle of hybrid,
crouched caned hurricane.
Cage of cups,
water taunting to measure its milliliters and decide—
we were all adventurous, surprised
by even the sunlight, open to untouched tree trunks and leaning
/ being / counting upward until we fell down into the distance of birdseed
sent to different species.
What is native where you are?
Can you see?