the trees are storks
they're cranes
herons
they launch over me
blossoms
florid
and the putt putt putt-ing
grass
the lawn from there to here, you can
let your eye swing
from the swans of the trees to the
set back buildings
and the sky blots on you the same as
the chloroformed cotton clouds
placed face to nose
nose to upchucked abrasive cotton swab
you cannot be here
so I'll dig around til I find you
you, gone,
I'll go I'll move I'll dig until I get to
the rattling
of the chain link fence
