Old Hands Hold Money, Children Roar At Birds

Looking out at the great puppet show.

The dogs, dogs
of all kinds

chase balls.

The roots crawl out of the ground
and reach for us.

Birds skim the land
like
bombers.

This is the best part of living
well,

and this is pretty nice.

Some birds fly right through men
as you eat a sandwich in the sun.

Bicycles
ride without men or women, a whole

Armada

of dead bikes,

Honest-to-God, it’s day again.

The male pigeons waddle after the females, more
well-fed
than

most of the humans,

land on the peak of the fountain. It isn’t
that hard for them.

Should it be for us?

We grow corn and mustaches,
amass wealth, build houses,
aspire to love, operate on one another,
dismember our feelings,
wait silently in the bathtub

and contemplate cancer, and our
histories,

and our fear of pain.

When it arrives like a shark’s face

in the aquarium

We know it. We know it is an
apparition but we

cannot leave the room.