The Squee of a Forlorn Queen
Home is place of permanent work
—Edmund Berrigan
Do I want to be a jade tree?
I don’t know about the hobo.
Fourteen times I twirl around
until the paper floats in swirls
above my head. My notes
about the end of life. And
its beginning. That’s a couple
of things that just cannot be seen.
Fourteen fruits into the juicer.
A continent of ice would be
nice at a time like this. At a
time like this, so would bliss.
The car, a Jaguar, goes har har. A
fleeced sheep stares up at the geese.
