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The radio plays only flutes. My key fits locks all over town, turns them over and over. Plants think up fresh leaves and even the dust on the shelves has got a new pair of shoes. Waxy yellow peppers jump in my pots and cook cheaply into a thick glee. Churches open their double doors and my throat starts singing up and up. Trucks kindly do not grind my house apart, and busses watch my movements carefully. Curly green boys hide in my old cotton sheets, and the library has stacked all the books in my favorite order. The checks I write clear quietly and completely in and out of the twilight, water-cool vaults of my blue marble bank. And death is just a word like doorjamb, magpie, harmless-- that twirls and worries gently. |
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