Now the salmon have returned to the heads of the orcas
At once I know the crow’s skin must be shimmering, rainbow to all except us
A man with a crow’s nest on his head follows me everywhere
I think I understand : let me too carry the miracle upon
my head, eggs stirring with serious life
The light enters the house
The trees enter the house, rung with light
In the mint smell we lay on the floor 
all morning touching the laddered
shadows made on the carpet
A bowl full of seeds : words each with their own shape
and arm and leg that sprightly burst
from the sound we can make with
our bodies. Sweet alyssum, nasturtium.
Let us open our windows and comingle with the verve
of lemon. Its little hands adamant with
a knocking. With the ridiculous vine
             of passionflower,
zany    permed to insanity  singing I think I feel
             deeply purple today
A lady with her lip on
On the map of our earth you will find a city you will find a diamond
patch of grass there in the warbling downtown mouth
of the city there are two insects – no, people –
cross-legged like a bow and arrow and
falling into one another.
Their shape is green. The same green
of a rained-over April. The same of the wide
mouths of dogs in the park
as they spin and
leap alive. Right now, the dogs
are alive. You can see it
in their adamant bones.
There, that is the bright sound
of children, words gemmed
with the sincerity of one’s own
language rising like sequins
in the air. A stitch through
all life. What happens with
the unborn cherry blossoms
in spring? When the creaking
of birds is technological and
incessant. I see dogs buoyant and wrapped
in pink tissue atop the strollers like
morning cakes in a bakery.
The light has left the house
The trees have left too, wearing our bright clothing.
All my gone stripes. All my gems
and small treasures.
And so now what. I have followed your map.
I see no green anywhere.