Life is cold, so I give it a blanket. The wind sweeps like a broom.
The hours creep, the katydids squeak, slow river noise
up my steps.
In the archaic, quick is a word for living,
so if alive I drag, I wonder if I am dead. Time and space
may judge me at my most idle, as I lay on my back
trace my big toe
around the rims of the Moon.
The DNA says I am Germanic, so I suppose I set my coffee
upon my medi hrefiz. But I don’t feel Germanic, or human,
and I am not sure what any of this means.
The katydids continue
singing their own names, and the cool blown wind continues
out the horn.
Do all these titles matter? In the heart of the Moon wobble
February stirred my dreams, and last night the ripple
reached my slumbering shape, and a guitar accompanied
this little ditty:
And just fly
Speaking to the thing inside of me.