I’d been looking for something for so long
that everything became a bad omen.
Irony should be the thing behind the branches
in a dream with mountain lions.
The pores of her skin are a kind of
river. How I’d ask for forgiveness.
Here’s to the marvel of sponges and shrimp,
how the sun controls an RC car,
the sulphur and swallowtail butterflies. How the
arc of doves fall into a seductive dream;
you don’t have to explain yourself.
There’s a band playing misery
downstairs where the walls hold the notes in.
Apologize for what you said on the radio
and hold the door for the next person.