poem no. 9

the geese are saying
fuck this,
I’m never flying North again.
what a time to be alive;
when the creatures of the wood
whisper screams, and over-fed squirrels
forget to hide from
women with pointed nails.
i commune with my wily visitor,
or is the visitor I? hoping in haste
to make departure from what is,
to others, i guess, a rural paradise.
hoisted on a lonely CruciϮx of time
on which we worry bodies hung
early. Anyway, we run on winter and
learn one hyper-local idiom
at a time. And i think it’s really neat,
Did you know cigarettes
meant sex, like, the whole time?