by Raw Doggerel J-Fal
Wide a-lee (or at), winnowing lifts the bricked-in
whine. What pupupupecks at the wood of the house? daubing
a dust across the old
glass bottles whistling jig and jug
a jug jug jug. Summer, or so you have thought
(at least once
in the harder bed of her absence)
must wend and snap dry stems around the ringless fingers of this three-month stutter.
Something slickstrong, white as dull petals
and lion’s teeth
plays matchmake and plucks from
rote-jingles three-word futures young girls may sauter
two happinesses to!
llfrom our twisting hands
You must not believe.
Futures, though infinite, proceed infinitely from infinite binary decisions—
and those negative answers…
behind your pain…
well yes, there was a yes,
now always a no.