If I tell you I just finished two
New poems
And you sigh and explain how
This isn’t making money
Can I deep fry the cry
Of a seagull
Put to bed the lowing
Foghorn and boil
One kettleful of
Phosphorescent sweater
Just to prove we are not poor?
You must suspend your disbelief
And trapeze hope.
I still have a few days on this Metrocard
And I know of at least one can of beans
That is not yet soft and diaphanous
With the spore-born promise
Of new life. Remember:
Mold matters, too.
And not everything is garbage.