“I’m perpetually perfecting an expression / that affirms I had nothing to add.”
Many bad things are happening.
I cannot find my son’s boots.
It is pouring. I begin sobbing.
My son puts a finger to his lips.
He goes, “Shh, shh, shh,”
like the parents to the baby on the bus.
A day for intercity travel & raptors. Clear.
No rain after records. The weather-
persons warned, “Nothing more
may be absorbed.”
I observe spring evicting burrowers
accounting for the birds-of-prey
wobbling on drafts
Awed, I rubber-neck and
swerve, shout, “BIRD”
and tenderize dessert.
The commenter lols at Bree Olsen,
former actress, pictured crying
can’t get a job—what’d she expect
yeah, some women capital-L Like it, FWIW
—what’s it matter? The patter of hands
beating on a window somewhere.
I suppose all that
will be read: the threads, the history
what I wanted to see
but not what I muttered
walking behind the young woman
in a swimsuit that day.
A family of four poses their children
& what a chance that—those four
the union of those folks, the births
trees whiskering cliffs, sunlight
washing ashore, March fourteenth.