Outtake #2

Trees of Heaven

Two hummingbirds are singing in the garage with sleeves on. Beads of sweat pool on butternut squash. A dream where a film producer and her husband quietly poured a glittering orange cocktail from a small complicated bottle. Dark room. One baby. No lights on. 

Every dream in a snow globe, no relationship between inside and out.
Moon-faced and drunk, one babysitter leaves for the desert, a familiar strip mall, thrift store, juice store, extract store.
The chilly dream wraps up with a coconut milkshake. A shell serves as lid, like the overflow dome for a slushie. 

Small porcelain horse guards the fireplace (Inside, outside the snow globe it is ceramic, heavy as hell, huge ass). 

Ferrante on the small screen. Sweet theater.

I look greedily at the anthology. All of his poems? All of them?

Can you curl up with this?

Is it light enough 

To hold above your face?

Oops I meant to say more about the yard.

Mm. Hands metaphorically shaking.
I know so little it hurts. Dark haired and light headed.

Am I Peter Pan enough to convince everyone to come?

Outside our urban fishing shack is this:

30 hay bails (the hay guy initially bailed, but eventually came through).

24 black trash bags full of clothes, packed up during the great Bed Bug Scare.

We itch from other things now, and we realized there was a lot we could live without.
Hooks and some watering cans that blend in with the house. When you dig under ground you hit wrapping paper sometimes. Like once this was all a gift. 
Even the invasive trees are rotting. Can they smell the smoke from the north?

One dry to-do list nipping. Cats come and walk all over it. I sink my heel into a can of tuna.