Pass the Bass Guitar
I guess it’s too late to live on the farm.
The peacocks agree: the time is too soon to tell.
And what should we do with these bushels?
Where do we bring mountains when we leave?
We have many kettles to explain ourselves.
We find reason to believe in Spinoza’s dream.
Even the paragraph declares a new revolution:
Wear navy on days you board a train.
Wear orange on days you notice the sky.
And even this snow, in all its abundance, cannot forge itself to new dimensions.
It cannot replace itself with itself, as if to say: Here I am.
It can only remain content in the pleasures it derives from the world.
Like a landscape without a past.
Like the only thing we keep in the shed.