The Flu Hour (Douglas Luman)
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.