I put shells there, along the lip of the road.
Bivalves from last summer’s dinners. dog eats
a charred rock.

                          I have begun practicing
                          to eat
                          as well
                          with my left hand.
to slow
let it go.

              Don’t spit there,
              but walk to another room,
              another depositing drain

                                          enamel periphery 

water still small circle
in a slippery basin.

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The Steam Engine

I came back to the meadow an unsuspecting hart, trying to wake up from a long night of walking. I was looking for a subtext, a heavy horsy bee doing battle with its inclination. What’s your angle? A little evanescent on the rim, it’s only a willow, beaked and shining, a toothy margin holding up banks. Have we overstayed our party in the heavenly city or are we spilling through its gates trying not to get trampled? On the berm I filled a basket with crashing birds. In the dream you pointed sideways with your thumb where the cars were flying.