refusal to multiply,

reclaiming the

single loaf

and the single

fish thereby.

THIEVES

There are thieves

in the mind, their

dens in places

we’d prefer

not to know.

When a word

is lifted from

its spot, we show

no surprise,

replacing supplies

with provender.

Out here, it’s

the tiniest stutter,

the subtlest patch—

an affordable loss

of no significance

whatever to the

plastic surface of

social commerce.

Should a bit vanish

from an event, we

likewise manage.

But back at the ranch,

a hoard is building.

The thieves are

hatching some

fantastic plot

made out of parts

we’d laugh to think

that they thought

matched.

GREEN BEHIND THE EARS

I was still slightly

fuzzy in shady spots

and the tenderest lime.

It was lovely, as I

look back, but not

at the time. For it is

hard to be green and

take your turn as flesh.

So much freshness

to unlearn.