“To write these days is to avoid telling people how angry I am.”
—Daniel Nester
Behold the Rottweiler in its cage, behold homemade cornhusk
ornaments, behold the photo of a Jaymar miniature piano,
behold the galaxy of knees at noon, facing the maestro’s
fragrance. Behold, behold, I stand at the door and knock-knock-knock
Answer the call, be real now, be here & calculate
cost vs. bennies, don’t be that person who waits
until the last chorus to join in. Makes you look careless.
Care less. Rejection is a state, like catalepsy, to move through.
Behold the scroll, the wretched bankroll, the double tongue
summoning his minions to court, calculate the chorus
and ford the spring, a small thing, mysterious as amaryllis—
a little water, a little sun. Behold my process of (pre)tending.
Sweetpea, the voice will always call, a murmur or hum,
a spring burbling or a dammed-up flood. Locally sourced,
unforced, double-spaced & tortured into shape. Copyright
the Year of Our Lord blank blankety-blank, Amen.
Behold the ample galaxy, a naked miracle through the blinds.
Clean your damn windows and the bulb will bloom.
