BRACKETING/ SCOTT RILEY IRVINE
The whales have impaled themselves
on the harpoons. Distressed
with what can’t be imagined,
what shouldn’t be delayed.
Blame our melatonin.
Blame the wasted time
I see in place of my mother.
The shade beguiles,
and you have only half as many lovers.
I’ve asked that you say something nice.
Please tell me that I can still be
any old wooden post on an American boardwalk,
tied at the neck with a carnival bell.
Everything is uncommon
and it can all be tunneled beneath.
But fun is a standard of value
for which we can offer no precedence.
I imagine it as lifting your ankle.
Loosening your wrist.
Large cords of wood,
Curl your back in a way
that we will know
you are sleeping.
Cling to the roots as they
float further away.
The soil around them will appear
damp and trodden.