ceramic mustard and ivory shells cradled in fruit skins and ashesonce we were doll heads and now we are only ourselveswe seem to be discussing the warmthof the forgotten aging compostthree kids in the goat shed plotting breakfastthe blackberries puffed up and away with themselveswild with bird spewmotherly breeze now and a tip of the shawl when a yellow maple leaf flutters down* * *in the early garden was an aberration of three long daysrubbed raw by the absence of sorrowI went to the clever garden to meet the Asian Pear treewhere the doves perched in the morningstring seemed to be swinging from leafy branchesseemed to float from what has been lostit ties things together at one endlittle flower horses nickering at their green tethersin the gentle waft of the seedlings sharing the breeze* * *this is my home not the house but the gardenkissing the vast lips of shadows here seems widermore completethe streets have failed to grow over themselves near the burn barrelcobblestones thrown down a century agothose city boy shapes on the interior walls have a lot to learnsadly my bombs have all been explodedby merely the idea of the bombinstead suitcases full of cucumbersthe cassocks of the rhubarba row of men gap-toothed as potato forkshungrierturned inwardwhich vegetable are theycooled lantern light lifted through tender stemsholding too much weight for their shouldersand what they all wrote seemed to be either sleepingor chasing something very slow* * *an agriculture of windhas been planted sowed taken to harvestplanted again the benefactors in different fieldsall in the same slight breeze passing and passing againa powder of cloud a silence fallen uponI could have been the illusion* * *sometimes I lived in a bird in the garden a statuethat flew when I entered itand returned to its roost when I leftsometimes my chirping was understood sometimesnot and sometimes even Ididn’t understand what I was sayingin Wichita or Munster skinny victory gardens understandthe familiar routes of ancient sacrificial trainsand martyrs planting themselves in gloriousfailures whistling downthe long rows of ghostsanchor their feet in pumpkins and melonsI saw plumes in the air and I followed themsometimes other birds were with mean irruption I never knew if I caused* * *slumped against the tree stumpthe old hatchet blunts its attackunruly limbs will wait for their cousinsin time you could hammer them looseyour backside like nailsbrute force may not be neatbut it can be so much more satisfying* * *sooner thanis whenI had to go otherwisethat’s the way I am in my bird-suitahead of myself and streamingnot yet stepped back into my footprintI was a gesture till I fellflight is not a choice but an impulsein another body I’d be turning aroundto see you of course* * *feathers are the componentsof a listening device for windyou can interpret all that lies betweenthe source of something worth sayingand where you are when it’s finally understoodI met a bird I liked but there was too muchThoreau in that cabin dwellerwhere was my nest* * *next I listened at the portentbut I couldn’t open even myselfno footprintsI don’t want to know I’ve been hereso this time the bird I am is a dipperthe little waterfall in the creek mygarden in reverse that needsspace in the water not water in the spaceI look for the center but the center isnervous about relationshipsnot frightened but mercurialsettle down now and vibrate* * *what shape the center if the rest is infinitepurple meadow rue in the waterfall’s hairthe fortune I meant to tell you abouthas a door I cannot openany further than relaxedlimpidno awakenings nothing suddenlife in its bundle rolling around insideuntil the outside followsand everything appears still but is notthe way the echo of two crows moves only one directionand then they go hiking in the clouds* * *but even play can be an irritationwhich makes it more fun for one of yourjoyful annoying echoesthen I flip over and take the sky with mewhich makes you the instigator of reality mischief* * *have I been watching myself depart from myselfhave I been you with your feet on the groundthe whole time I’ve been flyingnow I want to go somewhere with a bottomthe waterfall the misunderstandingthe garden’s healthy feetI don’t want to call this a successbecause there is no other to followhere I am in my limitless post-occupationnailing cooperative clouds to thoughtless dissipationshere I am inside the fruit flying home to water the stringthat holds lost things in its bundle of little horsestoes in their windy featherless shoes of sacrificeI step back into my footprintI am here now but I was here yesterdayperched in the air of the Asian Pear