Edited by Andrea Spofford | Barry Kitterman | Amy Wright
Likely we’ll never nunchuck our way out of trouble
in drug lord’s warehouse on steamy, far-flung
capital’s outskirts, Asia, maybe, or South America,
then flee through brazen pluck and stunning wheelwork,
never successfully command animals to stop eating
each other for one second, broker peace between species,
and collaborate, constructing world’s tallest serial creature
that quells the evil in all men’s hearts, never even e-mail
the mayors of cities whose names strike us funny
and organize tours: Buttermilk, Bloom, Protection,
Acres, Greasy, Ulysses, Zigzag, Eek, Accident, Kismet.
Good days recall the texture of a child’s knees in summer,
to your children the surreal postcard implores.
Just before dawn we barely see the edges of things.
They look wispy, pencil-sketched, shimmering and frail.
crazy quilt of scabs. Parents! Recount your dreams