Por favor, let me see your hands!

When you hold them out they are part dirt.

What is that? I ask.

You remember a dream of gardening.

It must be left over from digging, you say.

We plant shallots in your hands, and garlic.

This should work, I say.

You often believe me.

It is months until harvest-

We walk around the neighborhoods in hooded boas.

Look! The moon is France

Look! The gas station is oscillating

Look! Everyone is wearing flannel

We construct some sort of aircraft out of shut doors:

And we scramble in.

 And we are drawn up.

I get airsick and keep my face turned outward.

You spit to keep damp your palms.

Now we refer to them as "the babies"

And we call them other names;

Sawmill

Peat

Bandit

Paloma

 

Passing over the library takes days.

We shoot chunks of freight through the roof,

which interrupts some guys working on their trig.

They break shelves and swat at each other with folded up hats.

They aren't really mad, its just an exercise.

Once I got thirsty and tried to drink your saliva

Is this kissing? I asked.

You started laughing so hard, and tipped us out.

I got stuck in the fall and hung around, suspended.

You found a rake in the shed and stretched it toward me.