my house
often smells  like a corpse.
mice

die in the space
between         the
wall       and
the       chimney.
the       smell
of        death
depresses       me
ever since my son died.

outside a bird is imitating a bird imitating a human voice.
 me! me! me!

that was about as far as the old man could get.
he lost his admission ticket,
lost his breath,
lost his son.

a certain kind of dream often appears
on nights when the moon is full.
but what do i care? i have given up dreaming.
i just spend the night peering at my own shadow,
while the moon, with edges gnawed sharp by dogs,
is like a malevolent visitor,
knocking on the window,
then wandering far away,
then turning back around
as if it can't
make up its mind.

it's a long wait for happiness, a long
way to the top.  but trust me, it's
a short way down.  that's where the dreams
cluster now, beneath the window
they flee

let me show you the imprint
of two feet on my chest-- yours,
duh.

i did have a dream once. i dreamed
that a blue-colored bird
spread its wings and flew away from the woods
and looked back

it looked back at the dream