Nothing mystical, it’s like ‘hey have an aspirin’
the crazy breeders uttering injunctions like painted blue jays.
When they get to town nobody sleeps until they’re gone
willy-nilly as divine accidents amid the particularity of things.
Inert as an absurdly large rule, they are
nothing mystical, like ‘hey have a complex insecurity’
categorical with basic speech, this awkward climate
of hierarchies confused with delight.
When they get to town nobody sleeps until they’re gone
and nobody enters the yes-no dualism of I-don’t-know … underfoot
the ground trickles with cats, trees, history
it’s nothing mystical, it’s like ‘hey have a programmatic soul’
they’re smiling back like boring paintings or a hands-on cure
rehearsing with ginger ale.
When they get to town nobody sleeps until they’re gone
casual as cut moonlight
and lonely as a surgical experience, pleasantly moist;
nothing mystical, it’s like ‘hey have an aspirin’
when they get to town nobody sleeps until they’re gone.