sunday on a whim

Squirrels are eating the insulation.
The back door is wide open—
but the black cloud has passed over.
Why so sullen, face on the wall?
You need a strategy to get from here
to the car. It’s quiet now, but any moment
the bullets will be flying.

I slice a sliver of self and say,
you go live the mid-century modern
with pool and sound view
and more rooms than you’ll ever need,
while I eat roots and walk under palms
head exploding like a dandelion seed.

Look it up, you’ll find nothing
on the filmmaker, one movie out,
a solitary prayer that won’t burn down,
but watery images drift into your dream
even when you’re driving home
under an animated fishbone sky.

At least I call it home: beach shack lean-to,
all I need is a little fire, night music,
and the hieroglyphics of the waves—
sun door I slide through to bring you
these glimpses, these bits of otherworld
eyes like a gallery vision in a gum wall
you can put your concentration to and see.

Sunset Cliffs to Golden Gardens—
ragged fractal edge, a thing you feel
and hear—no wonder this looks familiar:
shaggy trees, birds, hillside sloughing
water to the slough, deck top rolling
mist assuming another day,
parting like a game show curtain
revealing what we’ve won.