certainly so much comes our way, extra faces.

extra heat, extra wind, what am i going to do with all inside it.

inside, even lucy, the dog that ran away worried about it all.

she ran right into the 4th of july. when faces hung

on the bushes like plastic bags. fluttering

with a wave of fingers, not hello or goodbye. just

dismissal. such extra faces i’ve been given together with

so much else—extra trucks, extra freeways, sites. fistfulls

of forms i must fill out describing my illiterate passions.

canned stuff, eye storms, a writhing fruit at once a living egg.

cilia, scent of a woman recently departed. faces

still hanging around, emptied out from behind,

but still speaking. slack at the edges like a wetsuit

sandy and hanging to dry. cuffs where eyes used to be.

i don’t feel i can simply leave them on the fence line

where the day breaks. no one will be there.

if i turn abruptly their lips brush my face,

or it’s a threadbare cuff. it’s a shift

in the air. i recall when boys and men wore

them under the trees and smoke. so many, so many

i was given with electric current, fried chicken,

chickens in the yard, propellers and tales of the

distant city. why does it all press a stain the air.

can’t i wring it, like a woman who takes

her broken

life in hand

without even looking,

remakes it every day?