I’ve breathed the air chirped by sparrows,
critically appraised everything
I didn’t understand,
searched for magica potenta
in urban mysteries, shaded quantum clouds,
on bedroom ceilings, and found echidna quills,
kookaburra beaks, sobriety, all the words
I didn’t want to write.
Three knocks at the door-to-door,
I said I don’t want any, thank you,
not knowing what I didn’t desire.
I sell the hours and the days, walks beneath the rivers,
the pebbles on the shores, the midnight egret that
Still, I had no interest.
I have to wash my socks, I said,
and match them up—red with
green, and blue with yellow, a sensual shade of apricot
with a crisp green apple.
She was barefoot on one foot,
the other, inside a tiny cloud.
Above her, midday haze, the sun and moon,
I couldn’t quite tell which was which.
I have a number of visits left to make today,
might I ask about the time?
I checked my Rolex oyster imitation.
The second hand, or third perhaps,
was frozen, pointing at the cilia.
It looks like time is out of order.
A little casual panic.
I thought exactly so myself, I’ve been
to all of Enya’s places just this morning,
the Orinoco wasn’t going anywhere.
The washing machine,
its rinse and spin, could wait.
I have no money, only socks
that I could pay in lieu.
For all the socks you’ve lived in, I’ll sing to you my dreaming,
and when I have no more, we’ll reach the ocean
where the Orinoco meets the oysters, and time
will swim again.
artwork chirped air