What strange fates
we’re stuck with—
they tuck themselves
around us, tiny ears
that flower, our skin
enfolds and folds them.

Born at the end
of our century
nursing monuments.
How granite of you
to live in one place.
How all these years.
How funny your sad
ears. What about the
painting of the barn.
Barnyard. Barn-speckled.

Everything I ever
loved was neither
perfect nor good.
We take our anger
out in lattices.
Scales of anger:
an empty chair where
there should be three— 

horned owls. Crow court.
Tiny black feet patter
in the parking lot. What
are they going on about?
What are they going on?