Jawbone

The whole of the world is borne upon the neck,
the whole fat lobe of it egg-shelled, bobbing
up and down — toothy. Shellacked you might say.
We admire the view. When asked, every seat
is a window seat, beige-cushioned and agile.
Plum red is the moon if you say it so.
What then of the warehouse district with its
big blue ball wedged in a storm drain?
What then of a fox that never flees — ?
There is an owl in the living room
perched on a sconce, not a real owl
but more owl than the one that appends
the night with its incessant code.
A gift that limps in the maple tree.
Is instinct not then mandate? Are bees
and that gear-legged roach not law?
So much to ponder before the sun
with all its impatience punches a hole
in the east, such as “Is diffidence not
the obverse of dahlias?” But as I said
and say it so, the whole fat world is
borne upon the neck and wonders
itself into woods and foul deserts,
cool streams and agricultural effluence.
All of it the sea, yes, all of the sea —
or whatever name you choose
to jaw spokes out of snowflakes.

Image: Vlad Kutepov on Unsplash

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