Fingers at the keys
at the wrong time of day
and taken by
a housefly
too close for focus
snacking on the mistakes
that are not complete abortions
drifting out of reach and not
out of mind.
My eyes darted from one
mess of still developing lim
bs to another and wanted t
o cover all of the glistening
canoes of their smashed in
heads with a fine and squa
re picnic blanket to keep t
he fly and his inevitable fri
ends far from here and now.
In the space of the air
pressed against my ear lobe
before darting beyond the reach
of fingers too busy with keys
to bother with winged fleas,
a whisper grew
and turned into
a question I would like to pass to
C.D. Wright sometime after we've
put our tea cups together.
The question being
if
it's fair to reduce a life
into a series of well stated axioms
and a matched pair
of despised socks
or
if its fairer
to leave that sort of thing
and its attendant particulate peculiarity
of problematic fourth and final movements
for the professional
clergymen.
