Possum Pouch

Black Stone 15

THE GOAL'S GOING out
moving into the forms we
need to find
not know anything
or squeal about once more
(with feeling)
but completely opened
by the strangeness of
occasion—
new day now!

Five p.m. Tin foil crumpled in green grass. Hoa boils water for nettle tea and now I hear the kitchen faucet running. K skipped his nap. His voice comes from another room. He has set-up his tent now, camping in the wilderness of his bed on the floor where our heads pass out dreaming by a window as the moon lives and dies or the sun the same or stars. There's a fly carcass on the sill, dried out and half-rotted. Its delicate, translucent wings reach stiffly into the glass. It's absorbed back into the air as dust and the light's grey blue distance leaves a dull mood on the room. Only their voices now animate that part of the house. Wednesday, daydreaming, looking at sycamore pods spraying the wind.