Nothing to do but warm my hands over
the toaster and call it communion. I pet
the wind and wait for northeasterlies to fight
over my skin. My superpower is laziness,
so I laze. My golden calf is a hammock swaying
beside a kettle lake, geese supplicating
water deities with each honk. I compose lists.
Favorite imported color: Loch Ness.
Favorite amusement park ride: melting iceberg.
If I ever write a post-apocalyptic
play, expect dripping water and kids
riding bikes around a smoldering fire.
Or maybe dripping fire and water riding
children around a bike. More chanting
than talking, more humming than chanting.
On buses, I toss my fingernails
out the window, hoping to appease
local gods. In lobbies, I pinch plastic
flowers just to be sure. At the end
of each stanza, I dangle my feet into white
space like a drunk hiker at Angels Landing.
Some call this cloud work, some call
this clever crows riding the updrafts.
When I’m afraid, I close my eyes and sing.
When packages arrive, I rip them open
like a kid on Christmas Eve—no pets
or self-help manuals inside, no dark miracles
worth taking a bite out of. I wait some more
