The Chore
What is it about movies?
In them daily chores seem so romantic.
Love scenes happen at sinks while the dishes are washed.
Chases in markets end in tomato baskets spilling their—
In real life, chores feel like—
The Chore exists in the mind
and in the physical world.
How long a time is experience?
Is it an infinite thing?
Do we experience our pillows each night
new again?
Will a rose smell sweeter next year?
Will I return to the rose?
I know where one blooms and bends
over the parking lot below the bedroom window
and a whole bush besides.
Do we daily change so much:
I won’t need you tomorrow?
Or someday hate blue cheese
which today is burrowing into my mind.
Am I becoming wiser, as each lightning bolt
differs; do sizzling claws of electricity
illuminate uncovered ground?
If I have seen one brick, haven’t I seen
them all? I am so lulled by each red weight
and wonder, fingering their stacked natures
of The Sharp Uneven Edge.
Death will be new after all the world’s
old news.
All thunder rumbles.
All fishing anhingas must dry out their wings.
All anhingas fishing must dry their wings.
All fishing anhingas must dry their wings.
