You ruin your body in November, where insects begin to pay
rent somewhere else, where lightboxes rub their hands together in anticipation
of their consolidated return.
There is a police report inside mom’s grey lock box of secrets,
carbon copy dad followed mom to the grocery store. dad accused
mom of fucking someone else
because the firing off inside his arms fired off somewhere else.
Now you’ve reproduced yourself
in the face of a stranger who sits in the café
where I work, writing on his computer. The fern resembles
you, too. There is an upside down universe
where we get everything we want, bees don’t
vanish when we take things that aren’t ours.
Dad remembers cytology but multiplies it by 3,
but this time, he knows how to read a calendar
or the cicadas will trade their watch with his.
And you don’t move one million dollars in a year
selling fractions of evil.
You keep the rug underneath you,
or at least the birds vibrate closer
to earth to keep it spinning-
and smoke signals don’t mirror
motel rooms where the sparrow
cannot keep silent.