The other night the trees poked the forest
and crackled about in unpleasant moments
of unfettered booze running dry. It’s always vigorous,
the sun plummeting at great speed from the sun
down to us, and lighted by my grandpa’s arrow
Zippo I smoked to its brilliant delivery but awarded
it a 8.9 with points deducted
for the imperfect dismount upon my knees.
Poems, to some, can’t be longer
than a flash of light, or an eyelash, or a length of tape
meant to secure a faltering mirror: I recognize
the distinction of right and left switched under cups,
and distinguish recognition of each eye to one another
in a wink, and left the right greening on my hands
as copper, and rightly left all things undistinguished
as a spitball against the wall of consequence.
I left the mirror in broken pieces of tape, discombobulated
and spazzy, choking on quarks disrupted
as a shuttle humps its way through New York.