Possessions

i.

Before we took
possession of the bus, we knew
where it was going.

Now we forget.

It could be because
of the singing.


ii.

What brutal necessities
scrape the tongue.

Mary had a little lamb.

As if it is something
we, too can take with us.


iii.

Vast cornfields
are ripped by the speed with
which we travel.

No birds here now.

Just factory smoke
re-possessing the sky.


iv.

What did we know
of ownership?

At first, we thought
the driver was an extension
of our hands.


v.

When mosquitoes
take what they want, their bellies
fill up with blood.

We are not aware of this.

We scratch for a while,
but remember little else.


vi.

One by one,
the road puts us to sleep.
Like dogs.

A shoe, once dropped,
is lost to the foot.

Even emptiness has its demons.



Ceremonial Spoon

Stir. The passage of time manifests itself through cycles, the percolator's deepening attraction to cold. One blue-bottle fly hijacks the counter. Even in letters, the dearest is the first to go. A stack of Tupperware, wounded by dust, keeps the cupboard from shutting completely. The fruit bowl holds the kitchen upside-down. Is the maggot offering a way out of the apple? Outside, the sun is lemon hiccup, is artificial sweetener, is road mine exploding the body into a cathedral of sky. A cliff can fall a million cars before sating its thirst. Cups take their origins from bone. And here, your hand -- like an x -- on the wood, the empty chair with its back to the screen door, denying sorrow.