If you can kill two birds with one stone                   let’s have a rock concert
                and hang                                   the winged creatures                                             that hover
                                                      over our dirty laundry

                out to dry.                                                                  So you slept
                    with her once and now                  you have thrown that                       shuttlecock
into our game.                                 I could smack it all down                                        with my racket.
                The birdie                           would stick up                           stiff and yellow
                                      from the green lawn.                                           Rigor mortis.

Hey, I have never believed
                in Eden—unless you count      the rainforest.            Even there, bullet ants
could sting you              to certain death,                     or snakes the circumference
                of trees could choke the air from your lungs.

Cassowaries with heads                                 as bright as rainbows              can open
                                    your flesh                              sharp and clean              as a hand-held
                                                             hole punch           with one swipe of claw.

Once in grade school our teacher gave us black construction paper to create
                                    a sky,              the holes                                       papered white behind
                                                                 to indicate intricate galaxies.

Really, if all we are is rocks ground down, why waste our time
                    being angry                        when we can wash out                our spots and stains.
                 The shirt still works                       if you wear it close                        with a vest.

My love, let’s only symphony about the big things: if we’re bleeding,
                                                                         or punctured, or dying,
                                                                                                       or lost.