Over goldfish

14 February 2009

I can't have you?
   good heavens,
I never thought of you like that;
       a possession to gather,
       a piece of luggage with my tags.

As just some friend, I had thought to draw something deeper from your closedness,

but I don't want to have you.

Who asks to own sunshine, or fresh water, or happiness? I don't claim you
       like some item at will-call.

100.2°

10 February 2009

I tried counting sheep
1, 2, 3... 4.. 5,6... 7...
But traffic patterns were erratic, and a few confused sheep caused a wooly pile-up.
Somewhere, I started singing Happy Birthday.
I wonder, when this fever has completely usurped my conscious, if it will put up roadsigns: reduced sheep-limit, no ewe-turns, soft shoulders ahead.
...Happy birthday, dear Cathy... who is Cathy?

I scraped my brain for some remnants of coherent thought and made from it a trebuchet to help with the sheep launch.
34... . . 35... . .. 36.. . . 37... .
At which point I ran out of sheep, and the large Over-the-Moon Black and White was called on to substitute, then a killer whale swam underneath.
Yin and Yang.
like that ad in Modern Bride for a 40 ft cake platter, 41 ft cake platter, 42 ft cake platter...

I woke up several hours later, cold and sweating and still counting.

In season (to be read aloud)

02 February 2009

The first new months are off
to a slow
cautions
start.

They needed crampons to hike
from last year to here, but
today
all the world
wants snow shoes,
and thick knit things,
and hot spiced cider
and someone to sit with
to see the sky
frosting old Earth
     with
          snow.