I wonder as I drive behind the truck
whose load of leaves is blowing
all over the windshield and making me
also wonder if I will have to bear with
this decomposing blizzard for the rest of
the ride through the ruddy half-lit streets.
As if in protest I steer with my pinky
and with my other hand rub at the chalk
on my pants. Some of the radio songs
are composed of nothing but answers.
Some of the answers pierce us in two places
like a staple passing through the flesh,
though they hold nothing together.
Everything they touch drifts apart.
Everything they touch becomes a swarm
of dying bees. The sky dissects them
so that they may again be beautiful.
We buzz by the carcass of a mourning dove
and do not stop because we are growing
like geraniums and have no time to lose
though time is never gained or lost.
You think you can sift through it, collect it
and count it out and count on it like a binding
substance used in carpentry. My house is
always teetering. It cracks and groans
and may soon be scattered splints of wood.
The sky holds nothing to the ground.
