If We Lived Our Lives Like Songs
I'd drink strangely
and much and most
of the night until frost
on my windshield's a dust
of finely grated streetlight,
spilled talc of zinc and moon
and one long walk home.
And right about the time
why shoots way out ahead of how
I feel, I will say no more of this,
though very much else. Like I like
my blues with more green
than yellow, too. I like cuckoo,
I go ape. I've owned many kites
and flown only most of them.
How long have I had to get
out of here? We're talking ten
or twelve minutes until the sun
goes purple blow torch cooled
to scrap grade daylight.
We're talking breakfast. That red
freckle of storm on Jupiter has
spun for 300 years, roughly since
Rousseau wrote the one
rule of education's not to save
time, but squander it. Know
about this. Due to weather
class is canceled.
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.