The Tribble

I approach the panel.  Your blazer makes

my eyes wend.  Are you there, Catullus?

I need to borrow the spindles of fate.


You lift the lid.  The tribble is old,

practically coming undone.


I catch archive fever.


Your dog tackles me like Hobbes

when I open a door.  A scoop of

wet food pacifies her.  Beards tickle

while she dreams under the afghan.


Winter licks the doorstop as

Obama makes his entrance.

We fall off the chesterfield,

tangled in a string of lights.


My argument won’t coalesce.

I don’t know what to say about

winged ones guarding his funeral.

Those archons in the margins.


We watch reruns of House, avoiding

the garrulous lobby where battered

hopefuls crisp in a cast-iron pan.


Shadows make trouble.

Desires abrade the duotang.

The wharf is like Coal Harbour in

Vancouver, jewelled by gulls.


Streetcars bump at salient angles.

The lever sings.  My geometry is

weak, but our hands solve for Y.


At the airport, I declare a finger puppet,

a mercy letter, snow-streaked clay,

some of the dog’s orange frass.  Nothing

I can’t carry on.