TO A DARLING OF THE AVANT-GARDE/ HOWIE GOOD
I look up from what I’m reading. A puffy little robin agitates a branch framed by the kitchen window. Everything must do after its own kind. And what’s the duty of the storyteller if it isn’t to tell what happened in the order that it happened? A darling of the avant-garde screamed God’s name while having drunken sex with a stranger. Eyes, as colorless as zeroes, gathered whatever might burn. In an unknown street turned down by mistake, someone was being beaten. The spruce tree became a cello. There was no such thing as cancer of the heart.