the rhythm of sliding
tomato seeds, tomatillo seeds, ground cherry seeds
one by one with pencil tip
down the crease of cardstock
at greenhouse table along to the
scritch scratch scrape of birds
on the roof and the walls and sometimes
in the metal of the stovepipe

wherein i make a calender
of the days in a week which says
try harder with a scribble heart
across the top
and an image of laurie anderson
pulling a light-up bow across
a violin
and then i fill it in with
writerly intentions
(not the kind that are meant
to just be good but the kind
that are spoken/laid out
like one lays out new moon intentions)
mica in the office
with a bucket and a stainless steel bowl
weighing the spinach on the shipping scale
the moment the light hits, gold,
striking the clothes on the line,
the hazel of my eyes,
the white siding of the garden shed
with its honey-spell
owl’s eyes are long tubes
which is what allows them to see so well at night
mica says and their eyeballs
can’t move around like ours do
which is why they have to turn their head
to look
ladybugs crawling on bed,
ladybugs walking along the desk
in danger of being squished by my forearms,
ladybug explaining the tickle i feel
underneath the hood of my hoodie,
ladybugs parading across and in the layers of
stacks of paper
11:09pm, gathering of moths
flickering their white wings
against window pane
(looking like something celebratory
the way the light plays
with their shimmery coating)


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