I think the man I didn’t give change to
lurks near my cruising rock.
Although I’m shucking and peeling—so busy,
there’s no plot to untangle
from the scratchy earth.
Nuts in between the lines of heaven.
Urchins parade the whole month around, and
new months I’ve taken to measuring in loaves.
I call out that new sound
as they wax and wane.
Bones are for needles,
sticks are to chew, and with my scallop brooch,
I’m aloft and singing.
He marked an attitude of mine—paranoid sorrow.
It eddies in lame laps.
And I shelve them all as
I cut smoothly the vacancies here.