trust my feet

in the dream, someone’s son asks
how long are you here again?
and offers to show me around/
get me the places one needs a car to go
the call of the woodpecker
whose name i don’t know
(soft smooth gray head like a dove
grey feathers with black spots
painted red underneath)
so loud it sounds like it
came from inside the house
rather than from the crank-out window
(bathroom) it was perched on
an hour or two
under afternoon autumn desert sun
reading about the corporate theft
of the world’s freshwater
in one spot long enough
to observe the party of unnamed woodpeckers
gather and flit in the trees to the east
and then swoop closer
as a group
calls and responses from leafless branches
beaks pecking bugs
just under elm bark
you know how corporations have been essentially
granted the rights of a human being through corporate
personhood? i ask the squirrel-wary shiz one time zone away
well, i started a poem called
“if corporations really are people, then those people are assholes”
walking on gravel
under night sky
not yet moonlight
i trust my feet to know
poems doing things
around the dining room table
adorned with tiny vials
of taos rainwater
observing the sacred space
of that pause
between one poem and another
i bet you’d appreciate this
i say to regina while pointing
at the brandname NICE! on the
aluminum foil box