Litter
Passion
is work
that
retrieves us,
lost stitches. It makes a pattern of us
it fastens us
to sturdier stuff
no doubt.
Jorie
Grahm
“I
Watched a Snake”
Litter we let
lie litter we tear
and crumble and
throw
madly away
tight rumple of
a ball or toss
nonchalant and all
the care of the
mistake is hidden
in one of those
folds, it’s spit
without
spitting it’s not
the work alone
we grind our jaw
on but those
hands sweeping
like a broom
that buckle us
from behind the
ambush we swear
like all the
profoundly addicted
we swear we
knew we did we knew
shit the
disguise was so like
that partridge
in the trees we’d walk
right by
whistling barrels eye ball-
to-eye ball- shells
tight as hibernating
snails breach
open safe as sky
and after long
after the plastic frown
like that mouth
the hull tip stepped on
brass head like
any brass
going green
already after it’s ejected
before it hits
the moss
before even
it’s clutter telling the whole
world the
trajectory
and not one
single flat fuck give a dam
the blood’s
already down the left
side of the
crag where the bird spooked
and flew shock
boom flew
and the trigger
is natural after the breach
is slipped to
its lip it’s natural
it all fires
after that and just as natural
I suppose after
what’s hit goes down
and bleeds and
sometimes moans
and if the
hunter cares he’ll dangle off
that crag and
grope a minute and hope
and hope the
bird although furiously dying
is waiting and
there’s little wind
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