Fate and fortune are
in a drawer filled with light,
like a pair of gloves
illuminating the ideal room,
The wrought iron is overwrought,
A striped cushion comes to life
with an occasional song,
Good luck and prosperity are
knobs shaped like a single ball,
The closet is a black box
telling the latitude/longitude
when the bedroom
crashes to earth,
sampling a door,
sampling a window,
The fundamental doubt of dark
red, yellow, blue,
scribbling testifying signifying
I had a tiny doll house once with little chairs,
How could a house so small hold so much love?
How can the eye so small see so much of the world?
I DON’T BELIEVE HE EVER LIVED
I see his red and white striped shirt hanging against all the others left untouched by his breath. I say Thank You to that shirt for all the poetry readings and places, and also to the Navy Dress White for Angel’s wedding, I say Thank you to each one, following them down the rack talking to a closet. Perhaps he wanted freedom from all these but I am still in the forest and wonder about the meals we’ve forgotten and the peaches once eaten—did they exist? That sounds like some do-good-seeking philosophy. No. It is the quick cold snow of truth, biting and cold, gone as snow.