The Flu Hour (Douglas Luman)

Posted on March 7, 2015 by in Heightened Talk



At the note of an owl’s hoot,  a field  mouse  is  made  into  a  packet
for its suffering. &  here I set  to  nonsense,  boiling  a  house  worth
of   barley,   knowing   a   kidney’s   grip.  The  trouble,   honesty    &
prepositions; when a fox’s kin is suddenly lifted from its grief, what
separates me & a raptor’s kindness? On suggestion, the woods snap
to a cricket factory.  Kindness:  nature stops with what’s larger than
its   belly.   See  the  oak  at  the  end  of   the  walk?  O,  it  will   turn
into a sculpture at dawn; there’s a thought: sleep in a knotty hollow
harder than a skull.


I arrive home to dusty junk,  busted pottery,  the  sound of keys—any
of these nouns, stuff of atonal melody. Testing the notes, I tumble on
a bundle of sticks.  Accidents  will  kill  me.  An example: waking isn’t
an  intentional  thing.  And  if  your  skeleton  refused?  The  world  is
worse  for  wonder,  &  I  owe  myself  more  sleep;  to tend or weed  a
dewy rock garden, to lie twisted in some sheets.