The birds are handled and washed, handled and washed, handled and washed, handled.

We strap foam pieces to our feet and move forward at a plodding pace.

Halfway there, I turn and turn again, until there becomes here; here, there.

Your lectures about the rights of mannequins make me admire you more.

The day unfolds like a leisure suit squashed at the bottom of a drawer.

Wild, I ran toward you carrying peas as peas slipped through my fingers.

Last night I dragged my cloak over the wreckage and filth clung to my hem.

Inside I eat green beans while outside people smoke pot and read poems.

Doilies pasted to a window don’t tell you anything about snow.