To my ear, the geese seemed stuck
in some sorry squawk-show rerun,
their sloppy V the envy of no commuter
in her orderly lane.
No beauty queen queueing for lip gloss
fretted about her animal past,
what a life spent erect might
and might not yet mean.
On my chair, worrying a wan dream,
I saw roadside ditches
full of fur, feathers, lost bodies.
I slumbered on coals.
The queer pianist took a breath,
determined to play pitchblack
on snow white keys:
rapping cantilena.
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