Here in the capitol
of lowercase relations
your drink is holding
yard sales for you.

Among headstones is a table, a lock, a plate of cucumbers
and salamanders (which can be pickled), a bowl of raisins --
a handful -- skating the bowl's concavity,

trying to

become round.

If a condition of space travel was one could nevermore return,
how many astronauts do you think
there'd have been?

More stars in lawschool than the cosmos.

Somewhere there's a story
of Indians singing
instead of pointing and laughing
when the Pilgrims came
and the Atlantic dropped off
into the earth's crust behind them. You see

pickles can't become cucumbers again. Everyone who died
drunk driving in World War II knows that.

But still

ovens dream of one day being iceboxes,
and the ice cubes all know this
and it makes them sweat.