We have become miniatures of ourselves,
or leering cartoons, bedecked and spangled
with garish blues and other colors from Korea.

The field behind your house contains mice.
The alley between my building and the next
glistens with bits of glass. I see them from my window.

Our kitchens may be similar—I don’t know.
Were we both too busy “being alive” to eat
a proper meal? My mother said so. She’s trustworthy.

You are not going to America. Or, I mean,
let’s go together in a boat of wattle and reeds,
a canoe made of Teflon and newspaper.

Ships on the sound. Or one ferryboat, one schooner.
All bodies of water call me out and frighten me
tremendously. Life is simultaneous—each moment

with each other. “With each other”—I put
these words in the purple book of tag-phrases
so I wouldn’t forget it, but sometimes I do.

Sometimes the most beautiful thing in the world
is simply whatever you see when you look out
the window: now: a discarded toilet, two daffodils.