My daughter learned to point
in a cemetery.
There were many deaths that year.

The priests’ black shirts grew discolored from sweat.
Florists did well.
Pillowy, white fabric lined the open …

because do calls this house an ecosystem

where straddling folioles tangle mighty-fisted

along a wire canopy he strung

above the brick-and-pot garden, and city fox

coming like a client for bananas they feed it …

Sundays are for the depressed
half-naked
dancing in alleys
of fiction
of fructose

Sundays are for feeling small
submerged in our dreams

misty eyes
and
mild madness

green drapes
and
country music

Sundays are …