After the rain the
birds tentative. A stray
car here there
like white squall. What
is home in
this city of erupting
knees? This city of dancing?
Wake neck
stiff full less
from dreaming than from
stubbly bits of song.
Where did we go
only just a moment
ago? Now here.
The whirling ceiling
fan jerks
the cerebellum into pulse
like a wet bell
whose tongue sets
off little forks
of white electric dance.
