I finally got back the hour
stolen from me last spring.
What did they do with it
but put it in some nasty cold storage?
Up north a farm neighbor wouldn’t change
his clocks, saying, “I’m sticking with God’s time.”
All of these people of late seem to know
God rather personally. God even tells
girls to limit themselves to heavy petting
and avoid the act they call “full penetration.”
I don’t seem to receive these instructions
that tell me to go to war, and not to look
at a married woman’s butt when she leans
over to fetch a package from her car’s
backseat. I’m enrolled in a school without
visible teachers, the divine mumbling
just out of earshot, the whispering from the four-million-
mile-an-hour winds on the sun. The dead rabbit
in the road spoke to me yesterday, also the owl’s wing
in the garage likely torn off by a goshawk.
In this bin of ice you must carefully
try to pick the right cube.