Each day four pounds of sunlight
fall on the earth. Make a few
calls. Try for an ounce, but
whatever. Early morning
ants shine two-way traffic back,
sweet with found rot, and out, and in
between teach each other further
farther sugars. Here’s the name
of the city. Put it in your mouth.
Girl with a bag of letters ladders
up to the Englert marquee barefoot
and takes out an M. Like the alphabet
the first ideas for women’s shoes
were birds. Lately waves of geese
at night look white, underlit with
streetlight. Of course, it could’ve
been a W. Make what make what
make what you want of this.
James D'Agostino is the author of Slur Oeuvre (New Michigan Press) and Nude With Anything (New Issues Press). He lives in Iowa City and Kirksville, MO, where he directs the BFA Program in Creative Writing at Truman State University.