#2

The sun, the swolen eye of the giant
boxer who holds the world,
glares through the dusty window.

Ringed stains on the table,
the bell of an old bird on the porch rail,
the boiler plate face of the sky closing in.

There's nothing in rock but rock,
but that didn't stop you from slamming
rocks onto the driveway all night--

one rock makes two rocks, two
makes four and there is no secret language
inside any of them.

There are some cuts on your fingers--
at the very least, you could have sliced up
your palms for the dramatic effect.

The sun's pupil dilates and it all goes black,
a ticker tape parade of ants stepping from
a gigantic brown bottle and out the door.