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If it weren’t for my refrigerator light
I’d acknowledge the incandescence of the bird in my refrigerator,
the one I understand to be a regular bird, just a regular old bird
without a head.
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I’m afraid God thinks I’m his telephone voice.
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I’m afraid God thinks I’m his nose in profile.
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I’m afraid if God saw me, he would very nearly recognize me.
Lost as he’d be in my many woods of grief.
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Don’t touch my things,
he would want to say—
so say it.
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Welcome to the three-star
hotel of my mind.
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Like anyone else,
I quote the many woods of grief.
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For instance, the moon here is divided into thirds.
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The moon is a love triangle dropped in a flour bin
(its white cloud outpour incorrigible, soft).
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Months come and go as if bearing
fresh trout for supper.
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You, me, our awesome appliances.
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I’d like to use that toothbrush, please,
the one with your face attached to it.
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In the orchard of beloved green apples,
there is a relinquishing of the city-body, the city-self.
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My refrigerator light is one weir in the River.
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Like the first kiss of a stranger’s elbow
in the backseat of your mother’s fears,
wait for it (my refrigerator light)
to brush up against you.
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You whose seawater floods my acoustic guitar.
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In the same way bees dodge raindrops in the night
given their capacity for discerning particular
shades of black, I’ve spent
a lifetime searching for the blackest film frame
in the People’s History of Drive-In (from 1933 to the Present),
exploring every public archive
in the many woods of grief.
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This country of I know what you left unsaid.
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As my refrigerator light makes its way toward you.
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The musk of careful interaction in the limelight of uncertainty
rustles through the leaves. In the many woods of grief.
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The dial-tone.
Which is the equivalent of
God’s unfamiliarity
with aspects of himself.
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All that is clear is that everyone around here drinks.
So as to employ the vocabulary of the birds we’ve hunted to extinction
in the many woods of grief.
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I am fortunate in that I happen to be
a pretty good-looking dead thing.
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For instance, I could never imagine what it
must feel like to be asphalt in its infancy.
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When the doctor asked me to have a little faith,
I told her to expose her right breast
so I’d have something to press my unholy against.
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That’s a line should be FedExed to the many woods of grief.
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Your words are the house lights coming on
after a double-bill screening
in a theatre I was led to ungently by the wrist—
the words whose sole effect
is in reaffirming how real this world we live in
must be to live in.
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No one is ever so alone as in the moment he asks for
the check and, instead, receives an incandescent bird
where the dinner mint should be.
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This is not a precise enough translation
of what I was unable to tell you
the night you became something other
than moonlight in a drawer.
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I want to and do believe in bird and in you
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