Let me tell you this bright and
twisting thing. The natural world dictates
letters for its secretary
to transcribe, just as the squirrel
with the white ears takes pains to
pivot on its upstage leg, and a robin
turns sideways to imitate Alfred
Hitchcock in a cameo: I Confess.
Auteur theory is for the birds and as
curved and worn as driftwood.
Transcendence is as big as life and
twice as unnatural, if you’ll pardon
my saying, my gelid eye.
Backlash your I before you eyelash
your back. Once more with feeling:
your transcendence is none of my
beeswax. Uncertainty’s a gateway
drug; soon you’re mainlining
anodyne. If you doubt realness, try this.
Shimmy up a tree. Now fall out.
Concrete is the great leveller;
there’s no placebo like it. Tell me
what you ate for breakfast because eggs
are the central metaphors I can’t make
work, though I’ll concede
with the best birdwatchers
that boredom is the most
important meal of the day.