1. WEDNESDAY'S THURSDAY MORNING


make the blocks of sound
heavier, until they plow
all these creatures into the soil.
Make their day a yellow blur
painted by digital
ghosts on the huge shell
that surrounds their actual fucking lives.

push harder through soil
things that kill mankind
with their equipment;
grab their boats and fling
them off like leaves,

from a rhododendron bush
left untended by awful giants
with mail slot eyes.



2. MONDAY'S TUESDAY NIGHT


school of fish
came frantic through
television,

tiny dots took over
huge spaces left
by retired stars.

we'd barely leaped
over the wall of nakedness,

freckled with nowhere,
bound by the slime
on pond floor
while the pinecones
whirl in the air

and the machines all gape.