Let me sleep & then waken whenever life demands.
Let the dead baker of pies advise me—
he who was murdered by robbers
from a warrior clan gone bad—
his shift was long often but swift
his crust, the sugared slices of apples
stalks of rhubarb, all of it was quick
so if he says it is for the best
let me always be in touch with my loneliness
boots touching down on snow-covered paths
the clotted snow, sleet & ice like devil’s snot
anxiety in the elementary school parking lot
a lot in darkness, tangle of
softnesses in darkness, the dark in darkness
that crow queen appearing endlessly
beside a bank of violet crocuses.
Let her always be watching me from her position
by the geriatric center—
at all times worn wild
in her affection for my shyness.
Let me mingle my feathers with hers
let my breath stir against her beak, snockered.
Elsewise I would be as pleased
to be a jar of baby food if having been eaten from & cleaned
it were filled then by the sea.