nothing gets under you.
It’s about to roll past but you crane
and stop it with your foot, then nest on it.
It’s real life, you breathe,
but can’t believe
you’re vowing to keep it warm,
ignoring the swarm
of polka dots embellishing the shell,
the blowhole stabbed through either pole.
I find myself
obsessed with Easter.
April lilies, lilacs, daisies
blossom best away from us.
According to the worldwide web
of shoots and roots
on hallowed ground
and tend to self-implode if left alone.
A torn straw basket with a stomach
of shredded yellow plastic
flung across the lawn,
who am I to disagree?
When I find myself in times of trouble
nothing special comes to me.
This appeared in the November 2012 issue.