Sometimes It Whistles
Sometimes it craves a good slap and hug.
It’s summer and your top’s down.
It’s a filthy burden, but the oil’s just right.
Your latest edible art seems to be breeding. It seems to be smoking a basket of
parts. It wants to sign your agreeable face and surface.
Your head used to be smaller and the weather larger. We don’t talk about the
We saw grapes rivering the hillside and wanted to feed them. We saw rivers.
We lived like that. Yard after yard of intense heat. A light toasting. With the top
We made fish sticks, so we ate fish sticks.
Our life is superb. It’s agreeably oiled and it’s nasty and filthy and wonderful. It
doesn’t need any more oceans.
Sometimes it whistles and grapes. Sometimes it just grapes.
We saw trees. We saw a platypus chick annoying its mother in there where its
thickest. We saw slick suits exchanging looks in the closet, the same look you gave me
yesterday after fifty-three years of marriage.
Why don’t we try some of this on? It’s easy. There’s a trillion holes in the sky
leased to a single universe.
The bright blood-rags sag softly from the roses. We’re puddled in cardigans like
cold fat bowls of fuzzy curd. There’s a runt glacier descending.
Suddenly I’m about to walk right into your next life. Suddenly you’re about to
whistle, lips all about and sighing, willing to and what about this and that.
You can achieve the best results by not removing the body parts, so I wear my
listening-head with its brighter reception.
Sometimes it needs a tickle and pinch. It’s a tea I use to keep me awake when I’m
sleeping. Sometimes just a sigh.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.