Rules for gravity

Don’t French, zero woofing, there are no rain checks
or recompense due to inclement weather, one

whistle means wave-particle duality, peacocks
roam freely so please stare into their hundred eyes

and fall into a fugue induced fug, piñatas
must be packed with seeds, feathers, guavas,

and cane drops, mind the holy smokes heaving between
the black aspens, they’re not the strain

of spirit one goes home with, two whistles mean
love which means walk backwards until your head

splits another’s head, eyes are not required
to weep until the cows come home from the moon-

drop soup, but, no tears please unless lifeguards
are on duty, in their high chairs, daubing

their buff bodies with liquid paper, remember
no matter how clean your hands may be, skin,

human skin and tears carry oils and acids that
are hell to seriousness, to weight and the sense

of spirit one goes home with, three whistles mean
everyone must clear the air, school mascots

must be escorted by the elderly, tails pinned
to balloons, red for mammals, green for lizards,

use oyster knives to open all fists, palms
must be packed with seeds, feathers, guavas,

plant your teeth into the old picket fence
and hold on tight, sick spacetime ahead,

relax with the funny papers and a spitty
syringeful of Dramamine then walk to the plaza

to watch a girl spin plates, last bell means ha-ha-
lelujah, which means walk backwards until your head

splits another’s head, eyes are not required
to lead your dog, at dusk, through the fading woods.

Peter Jay Shippy’s fourth book is A spell of songs (Saturnalia). His work appears in the 2012 and 2013 editions of The Best American Poetry. He teaches at Emerson College.
*Photo courtesy of Peter Reid.
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