&, sure, the dream is lavish & wears desire

coyly—who wouldn’t allow their gaze

to follow blandly along the ghost trace

of a path through trees where wild

fruits catch the sun in the taut curves

of their skin?—O, to be a bird that could

easily bob through branches & settle

at the eating before dipping away

to another lure—but dreams are overrated,

unless your dream is the song

of what was I saying? O, winter sun

warm upon my face! I’ll sing then,

even in damning the bills. Sing

even to the lingering sense of failure

reddening my mask of shame.