Picnic Technique
Moistly dripping sap
pilly this juicy gusto
pudding wasp crust
paper crisp in cut grass.
Sara Monaurally
The staked sapling at the gibbet
gallowed
silent squirming wail.
Fit For a New Hat
- When you measured my head
- blue eyes saw yonder
- sea anemones in tide pools
- I wanted to hug you but with
- the magnifying tape around my head
- ironically did you order
- the hat anyway?
Flashing Lights and Floaters
So tiny she climbed up through my nose and into my eyes and swam around
in the vitreous liquid, kicking off my retina.
Such a big name for so tiny a doctor.
“The lights are like paramoeciums falling like electric rain drops
white paisley sparkles on a flat black poster board
down always down never up in the far corner
of the right eye,” she said.
“Yes, I see them,” I said. “There goes one now,
like strobes.”
“It is still somewhat ambiguous,” she said.
“Asymmetrical.”
She had an accent to my ear.
“Let me drop in some dye
and have a swim around.”
High up on the top floor a magnificat view of the streaming
river and tiny cars floaters across the gargantruss
ginormous gargling cement girdles of the fat city.
Straight down where they build the barges
always the two blue cranes shifting
imperceptibly
an orange crane I’d never seen there before.
When she photographed my eyes
I saw faces like on the veil of Veronica
but morphing shapes
and a Trinity:
The father seemed bored, the little kid,
annoyed to be kept waiting,
flitted about like a ghost,
and the mother sat quietly slumped
over in a chair, resting, as if
keeping me company while
the dye spread out my eyes
into two flat brown oceans.
The Coming of the Toads 