I want the June version of success,
the egg up a tree with feathers in the mail.
The barking cat remembers when its world
was nothing more than a clump of hair.
I condemn the morning for keeping me in the dark,
the sparrows nest in the small of tomorrow's back.
An empty continent is shipped to my
door with a manual in five languages.
I grind giddiness into a bad excuse for going out,
acceleration goes barren in the cut of the bloom.
The sea sits on my kitchen counter in an eight-ounce
glass with a potato taking root.
I muscle summer into sweet submission,
the sun shoulders the curve of the source.
The crow follows the morning, the grasshopper
follows the crow, the ants are left to clean up the mess.