The Prime Mover
Between the pit of man’s fears—
dog-chain algorithms, the party mushrooms stolen
and the summit of his knowledge—
cryodesiccation, flush toilets in space
my son trips over his ninja costume.
/
He may accomplish something so historical—
teenagers loitering in radiation shelters
contemplate the long-term repercussions
of smothering him as a baby. Meanwhile,
he’s just here, twizzling flaps of elbow.
/
I am not terrified of sincerity
but what if he names his penis Astrophel?
“The heart is a litter of puppies
in the stomach of an alligator” he may reveal
at any time, from any pile of leaves.
Flat-Earth Antipodes with Ice Cream with a nod to Donald Hall
My aluminum-free
deodorant is made
of charcoal. Iterative
self-perceptions slam
into one another with
the incongruity of
perched hummingbirds.
On the otherwise-
deciduous slope,
cedars consolidate
the minority vote.
My outdoor brain
is citronella mush.
Pools of dew inside
a string light’s bulb?
they compare small things
to other small things.
Location-agnostic, sunbeams fray.
Things are bad now, but hives
of blackblue wasps are learning
to eat these metal parasols
and build perfect houses, indestructible;
their fluid nerve-stems resolute,
sped on flickering and silent wings—
they’ll keep enough of us alive
to raise pavilions just for rafters,
joist elbows of pine where conic
metropoles form.
/
In Montana, Polson girls ride horses to the ice cream shop.
Horse tails swish down Polson’s empty main street—
three girls (on gigantic horses) saddles, bridles, tack
all of it—
they are experts.
