now is the time, she says.
    she says a lot of things, though.
it's enough, it's enough to watch walls
    crumble like chalk in the hand of a child;
  it's enough to watch sunrise without dread.
         now is the time, she says.
    I say not much, they say.
          not much like a Polaroid
   of a dead owl in your dresser drawer;
         it's not much like a flower caught in a fence.
      factual information is less than an obituary
          telling you that your wife is dead.
        my inalienable right to make pancakes
           at three AM is where I flail in moonlight
    like a strange yellow fish swimming with cane and toothache.
         but, ah, what was that she said---
        a million things all at once with no simile
             (the walls make sound, but
     my eyes are a million things said on Sundays)
          no cohesion, no considerable operations,
    no calorie is succinct, no little bubble in your mouth...
        my terrible thing weeping towards a shelf always
      with pretty words pretty eyes pretty nowheres--
           my wound grows down the trees like ivy
                my hands reach towards you, I close me eyes--
            I breathe I breathe
    smaller breathes to not disturb you.
     so soft and calm with gossamer in your eyes,
           you shift like the moon tossing
     on waves of cloud;
         what gods have I to curse
     when thou art fled?
          Little lines can't suffice,
        empty is a word not full--  
               opulence and splendor
         like my toes in the damp summer grass.
              inhale, please, and take your pulse
        out in the cold because  
     the dryer is broken,
         everything beeps at me
        and houses shiver in nightmare.