an attempt not to line up all the ducks
this is a story in which the darkling pond puffs up its thick reeds.
time to think, if only
to think of the orchid’s sweetie-pie lips
sipping in time with the vermin-tail.
was that this evening? did that never happen?
there is godot and also godard.
a film in which we skipper
out from the swampy lens,
hoist ourselves up
as lambs, nestle in
to the impossible mold of obligation
our breath makes us nuisance to,
as we love family, despite the inconvenience.