there’s a butterfly in the dryer
with the blue sheets
today I worked my stained
blue slacks and old white shirt
my orange tie under wraps
but in a nice location
I don’t know what cries
behind the closet door
(but it’s no more poetic than the
droll garden with its hums and the
other hums from where the trashcan sits)
even though I can’t feel half my
self I’m out of the frying pan
and into the lotus position
look it’s a nut in the sky
tiny tiny
