The onion is frost
shut in and poor.
Frost of your days

Coffee wakes you from that sleep-bruised face,
fraggles your nerves
till they push you out into the day, into the twitch.

It was only a Daisy,
the kind sold by coupon off the backs of comic books:
Gee Dad it’s a Daisy! He grins up at his father

I can hear him not wanting to die with fiberoptic
clarity. The gun in his lap has other
thoughts but won't get on the phone. This

Rest with me under the linden tree. 
I do not have a linden tree.

No crisp white swans glide
conventionally across
the mortared, mud-room shower's
utilitarian cinder-block walls.

There is no longer just the knife, a bundle
                of sticks, and a pot with fire.
            Other things have made their appearance.

Why such irony in re the mystical context when a graph of even the most commonplace exchange would appear perplexed; when we drop out from the plainest statement in the posture of a bat?

As, many times, motive is inaccessible, must we get used to the art of the 
          plausible, and let live? And thrive as prats do on chat shows, toasting 
          each other in bat juice, and coasting?

I swipe myself again in my rawest spot, my logical dyslexia. I cannot shape up 
            to formal reasoning any more than I can cope with the tax year.