by Dorian Geisler

I live among miracles, out of scale.
Microbes are my shepherds. I will
build for you a pastoral. I will put it
on a slide. I am looking for spiders,
like grandeur is a spider, like a thing
can be put in another container like
a love can be given to another person
and remain the same. And somehow
it can. Bed-of-Toyota-truck gardens,
sold, full of mushrooms: the awe is
such that it filters down, and spreads
out. More beautiful than a meadow,
that which makes a meadow grow,
says Delilah, with a watering can:
The problem with graveyards, says
Gerard, is that we mark the graves.
You are living in post-2009 America
if love is too conceptual. Words.
Juju tells me he works in a penitentiary.
He says his hobby is watching birds.