Chickens can break your heart, she says. I like them fat, steamed in stew.

I’m cooking with a dozen rose stems shoved through my chest. Romantic.

Click, click. Practice restraint, practice expansion: spilled language on the rug.

Calm crescendo of K sounds comes next. Calm sound in the blank space

—no sound—nothing. Simile, so clever, buildup bringing you to the never

place. I should be restrained. God’s in abstractions like X of Y.

Slowly, I watch words smoke

into grey film over Malibu.

I drive my Volvo.

I drive my old Volvo west.

Throw the finger,

honk my horn.

Minds can break like a thread of letters. Reeling in the possible shifts,

the nights’ steam unravels. Some horn’s building cleverness in the fog.

Abstract existence : God’s like language spilled from a horn.