Short Arms

It’s too bad amputations don’t regenerate

like lizard tails, and flatlines

never see another

alpine spike of life.

An encore sung in blazing,

digital morse might spell

we weren’t mortal,

but, while grass grows green

even after it’s dead

and dandelions

sprout new heads,

be assured, dear being, that this

is no conglomerate

of disposable fronds

or photosynthetic phenomena.

This is more orchestral than that.

And -- yes -- I know; I watched

that tethered spaniel run deep the trench

in his yard with a one leash radius,

and when my fish died I

replaced it with a new one

the same color,

but centrifugal force

forfeits its pertinence

if you stop spinning

because this is not a cyclone,

either -- cannot be more

drown than drench or else why are

raincoat sales so lucrative?

(Well)

that’s a hole in the ground

to those of us who know --

those of us who cannot remember

the number of times

that the ladle has plumbed

the breadth and pitch

of every dampened lowness the arm

of a cistern can reach and returned

only with a single, sterling raindrop.

But I remember being

thirstier than that.

It’s too bad winter wears chiffon --

dredges these fistfuls of blacktop

in gypsum-colored motes

like the face of a geisha --

when nobody looks up

unless his tongue’s against his chin,

wish rephrased by every

flake that misses it,

thinking surely snow must taste

of orientation

because something has to,

and it’s not his own breath.

And maybe the clouds don’t seem

as high or beyond as they used to,

but he’s always been told

he’s got short arms

and God’s are crossed.

(Thinking)

thinking how they say that only

 the roaches will see the finale

since they won’t teach us

to live with no heads

and we don’t wash our hands

enough to be convinced

that this was always designed to be

worth reaching back for.

I remember being thirstier than that.