hand you something// factual// from the shed// To put a writhing thing// out of its misery// Will produce a
variety of nonsenses// I was down on one knee// shifting ashes to a feeder// asking birds to trim the canopy//
with strings of my father’s laughter// when I had this epiphany// You don’t get to elect// what space trash falls
into the yard of your consciousness// birds aren’t actual things// If you tie an apology to a bird leg// The grief
that endures// can forage the sky for forgiveness// Hope can starve you// I have spent hours with a good hand,
begging// Plunged miser in an oil bath// to count how many times it returns// misery// Tied my old man’s
name to a seed// to change the roundabout’s hedgery, yet// woke to ravaged pianos and Sputnik// the sky is a
bird, too// If you run a shoelace through whisky// From a sneaker you’ve outgrown// And your story gets
braided// between shredded obituaries// you become architecture// for eggs// Lore never abandons// But the
details can ripen our antagonist// until he becomes// this one time// I took a goat to the prom// I/we were in
love, so// The new yard gets cluttered with old torpedos// This is how I tell my father, absconded// that I am
sick// I tie a punchline to eventual roadkill// One he’s heard before// Sharp enough to split the curtain// And
season the parchment with// shards of an anvil// If the recipe calls for a punch// I oversell it// Repeat it until it
is identical to the bird who devoured him// You// Parkinson’s// fuck// swallow// one// pill// goat// and it
ricochets// son// back// there’s// nothing// nothing// left// to// forgive