by Gregory Sherl
On the eighth day, machine guns.
The ninth: trenches, barbed wire, flasks
secured to our green helmets.
What I’m saying is God quit two days
ago & now what?
What I’m saying is the trees shaped like sharp poles
will always look that way. The sun,
halfway between a cloud & another cloud,
will eventually pick a cloud.
After, it will pick another cloud & then what?
Who could possibly look at a volcano
& not think lava lamp?
I could eat a bread bowl every meal
& still feel empty.
See, I have measured monogamy.
I have published the results
inside the pillowcase on my bed.
It was so thick there was no room for my pillow.
It was so thick there was no room for a bed,
so we each traveled the Garden.
The Garden was so big we lost each other for weeks.
Later, I found her nose halfway up an apple tree.
Maybe she was trying to reach every crater
on the moon.
I would like to reach every crater on the moon,
take a nap & then start over.
What I’m saying is every argument
should’ve ended late last week.
Last updated October 17, 2022