Celestial Seasonings

Celestial Seasonings

Flight of the bumblebee
next door, the neighbor’s

kettle’s voice through her
screened window at three

in the morning, into our
bedroom. The cool air

brings sound, dangles there.
Not wind. Air. Not the hour.

Time. Not the neighbor cloaked
in her fuzzy robe, blue and gold,

stars, moons. Not the cold
air. Not me. Not the egg yolk.

The chickens that laid
the chickens that made more

chickens. The saloon doors
we installed, handmade,

stenciled with UNIVERSE.
One song. Second verse

is the same as the first,
little bit louder, little bit worse.