No News Is Good for You
I'm not complaining, but I could joust
a little more flimsily, for old time's sake.
The barometric pressure's almost over,
so there's no need to derive
pleasure from that—in the mirror the fear or
whatever holds one back
unmoors itself from observation.
That's the quiet thing about this habitually
merry span of dented days.
You are my almost-wife, in fact.
It's as if the planet were a wimp
whose pants are down.
Stop what you're wearing, I
can barely hear myself drink.
Absentee bees beget floral no-shows;
fast asleep, the forest fakes 'em all.