Yellow blobs appear on each page,
smudges that float up and down
over the words, the words which,
when read, are the sparrows
singing, the sparrows, tucked in
the lethargic eucalypts. I spend
so many hours trying to crack
the secret code. What is it on
my desk that sounds like eggs
hard-boiling? What is the cat
after? Not the words or the
birds (this time) but something
utterly engaging like a drycleaning
stub or a piece of kitty litter. More
to the point, what am I after? A
more slaphappy morass? Perhaps.
An albeit familiar goal, a place
I’m good at getting.
So here we are.
A full moon passes
over Geneva and I’m caught
in the gunk of the moment.
Darker gunk than I’m used to,
though. Gunk that could use
a little bit of your moon
which, while often swollen
and always inviting, is
dim enough to avoid
any collusion.
