Squirrels dream of a cougar,
a cougar given permission
to crouch like an assassin
awaiting its prey . . .

Three jackdaws walked widdershins
around the birdfeeding station.

I see
how you see
us in meetings:

merchandise
to slip
off
the shelf.

Stubborn, we closed our fists
To better ward away the brume

it’s more
of a gathering
than a town

Have you heard the one about
how I’m hoping to bow out –
playing guitar for the Cure

I measure distance in Spotify playlists
so I can’t be trusted with maps.

Forget the invisible network of servers which stores
and manages or mismanages data in the unending sky
far above our heads . . .

The body is not solid. The body is almost perfect.