Wheat Field With Crows

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Standing before
            “his last painting”         
                          I spot some crows,
a patch of wheat, storm clouds
            rolling in from the west becoming crows,
                          why are they menacing?
The crow clouds swoop down,
            fighting off the change
                          in pressure less menacing than simply
what they are – brushstrokes
            puttering along, drying or not. I weep
                          for the misrepresentation.
Nothing ever really ends,
            just continues
                          slowing down.
Every field, flower, mailman,
            a final work, please don’t laugh
                          fields take so long to grow
into what they are.
            The strokes that make
                          the raindrop make the crow
feathers, and wheat whose gold
            I want to lose myself in.

In the Bathroom

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The entire time you were
          branching praying to sky in stark monotone

teaching me how to apply
          both fastened onto barns/homes

lipstick, fingers spread
          sunfish eraser flying into low woods

stubble, matte red
          to kiss my palm and pimpled brow

Set perfectly on my face,
          allows for a divinatory hum

I wanted nothing
          crossroads of a limted shadow

more than for you to mess
          herculean chickens roosting by barley

it up with your tongue
          beside the temple profundity lurks

you said I had a feminine
          billowing downward to reveal

cupid’s bow
          the edge of a cliff.

Feline Musicology

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When i put on Elgar’s Ave Maria OP 2
Tommy pounced up next to my laptop
and turned his ears in the direction
of the wandering melody before rubbing
his gray mouth against the screen,
and looking back at me as if to say
finally! Someone who prefers
this one over Shubert’s gaudy
excuse of a hymn. He then
departed, 20 measures in,
to finish off his wet food
to a delicate amen.

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