An eager rooster takes a wrongturn at the corner of river and trees,
misses the mountains entirely,
races beyond the limestone pillars
that archaeologists had drooled over.
The morning mysteries give me
enough nausea to last until lunch.
Hens spend the afternoon laying
eggs in hammocks before they
succumb to a barking Walt Whitman
on his way to the refrigerator.
Construction on the apocalypse gets
hung up at the city council meeting.
A shaky rooster is ferried across a parched
reservoir disguised as a grim Allen Ginsberg.
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