the breeze of your writing
tickles my ear
look at me
I am eating pea soup
with my hands it's fun
the roaches in my tugboat
have swum into my bath
I am afraid
I don't care about monkey pox
it's really vibrating in my ear
I want a prairie dog
your shirt is up my nose
I wish it were running
I should just go to sleep and snore
now a deer is giving birth
underneath the kitchen window
I mean it the fawn is lying
white-speckled eyes open
in the fetal position
against the brick wall
really
if this ends up in your poem
I will kill myself
If I shut up
you wouldn't have a poem
and now the doe
I'm not a writing pad you know
influences the fawn to its feet
it trips over the brick at garden's edge
six deer circle standing guard
the fawn eats
first time ever
Are you finished with your writing yet