What Animals Know.

The fox is the one who bothers me-no, maybe it is the wolf, or the owl,
or the doe, who stares at me with wide wild eyes from a bush.

The deer emerges from the woods every morning before I go to school,
at my house in Flushing, on the road that curves like a wide v.

The fox lives in its den. The water runs in its brook. Clouds scuttle
across the sky; my father breaks his new boat. Here, I sit on the porch,

leafing through dumb magazines, words crawling across my hair. Sunlight
is broken. Everything is broken.

The fox is the one who bothers me. He is the one who makes me frustrated,
like I have to paint some giant painting for him to see me, know me, understand me.

This is not like a Disney movie where everything happens the way it should. This is not Greece, or Italy, or Rome. This is Jackson, Michigan, and I am sitting here,

typing this on my broken typewriter, spinning stories so God won't know.

Lost.

I find myself walking down the street
where we used to hang out, at the bar on
Seventh Avenue, or the library downtown.
We used to read books. You said books
were like flowers, trapped in a fog. You said
you read them every day; you were hooked
on them like drugs. I’ve never taken drugs.
The clouds seem to hover over us like
giant airplanes that move with the wind,
being pushed by the hands of God. I had never
seen the hands of God, but I assume they
are invisible. The Earth spins around the sun;
or maybe there’s a different way I haven't
discovered yet.

I forgot what you told me late last October, during
the full moon that was bright and beautiful
and reflected your eyes. What are the color of
your eyes again? I’ve forgotten. I’ve forgotten you.
Maybe it makes you sad. I wouldn't know.