swirl one knit brow

The blueberries in the saucepan

said yes but the bowl's metal flip

rising said spew char into blains

and the tragic arrival of ointment.

Everything takes you back

to some recurring dream

that is a constant deja vu:

couched in the louvred porch

symmetrically opposed at pairs

in red corduroy and ocher throws,

spirits gathered to haunt in silence

wondering what you're doing here.

The carpet stairs are worn there

and no repairs are scheduled,

the green clang of the dumpster

is a lifted chapter already uncus

in the window behind your ear.

How did that pine tree go

so unnoticed so lonely so long?

Intonations for a spell of virga

in a season already pluvian

go unanswered in the swirl,

the flirtation of the hanging squirrel

has coaxed the lettuce to seed

and the maple from Japan

is dying from ants under bark

and antic slapstick collisions

from the trampling of hounds.

A green and yellow garden glove

flattened with navy wristband

half in shadow and half in dust

awaits fingers of light to spread.

In the cry of the catbirds

I am summoned as a god

but nowhere else I turn:

it would be of no value to you

but it has great value to me

because of milky magic

in a molecular rumba

invisible to the naked eye.

Wondering if I should prune two branches,

I want gold finches and I want them now.