Blue jay vocalizes a clash on the color
wheel, tulip heads removed one by one
with a golf wedge. It’s something
in the frequency. Expectations are high.
There’s a reason they call it the nervous
system. Someone in bed at 11 AM impersonates
an empty house. Dear god. The sharpener’s
dragged his cart from the shed. His bell
rings out of the twelfth century
to a neighborhood traumatizing
its food with dull knives. A hammer creeps
to the edge of a reno and peers over. Inching
up its pole, a tentative flag. What is the source?
Oh spring, my heart is in my mouth.

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