Stuff pooled up by shore at sunset
(a fisheye like a grieving maple)
where
lost people laughing step
and otters on their backs
gnaw the muscle inside shells.
That’s somewhat jolly.
A painted duck falls
through a rattling tree
like a sampling of strange hail.
That’s pensive all through.
You reach under and strain
a wet shape out that looks something
like a (it drips on your shoes) grin.
Bewilderment follows. New shoes too.
What when you entertain the shadow
of nail heads on work-cracked fingertips?
Or a fork, tines-up, balanced on the top of a head?
The mood, he meant. What are the many blacks
of night?
If you wave your hand fast enough
over the face of the moon, you’ll find
come morning swipes
of green wide as
your hand on the windows,
a message beneath it all, letters small
as those curled tails wombed mice imagine,
their hearts beating sounds eyes make when they
open
and close,
that urge
peace paints green at sunset
see pink beneath
the webs of chasing light
