A postapocalyptic poetry
                                                        starts with a dog bite
And featherless birds in the ruined trees,

I’m winding down. The daylight is winding down.
                                                                     Only the night is wound up tight.
And ticking with unpaused breath.

You were thinking about something as luscious and royal as a dumbbell,
Small and cold, about to tilt, then smash to silver coins.
You were thinking about something so illogical and blissful,

To keep an assignation with oneself, one must, as a matter of course, break in two.
There is you in the snow by the banks of the river, your lips cold and blue,
Your hands fulminating with your first true love.

Resist. Resist:
Dehind, dehist.
Return the clear glass to the kitchen forthwith.

Right now in the rest area it’s sunny and cold. Someone 
is taking a picture of the vending machine. I have 
never been sad for appropriate reasons.

Hello everyone, hello you. Here we are under 
this sky. Where were you Tuesday? I was at the El Rancho 
Motel in Gallup.

Today a ladybug flew through my window. I was reading 
about the snowy plumage of the Willow Ptarmigan 
and the song of the Nashville Warbler.

My neighbors, my remnants, in what have you chosen 
to bury your heads? Shadow said one mote 
in an auditorium after a lecture.