Likestarlings

The Book the Book the Book

The world is somewhere knocking around in its large history

defiant fear is like yap yap yap.

It made a decision to write lots of poetry

about the emerging dangers.

Gaia.

Canonical leaves.

Lots of poetry circumnavigates the dumpster and bends.

The wind smells like warm expanding strawberry banana yogurt containers

left to burst open in the sun dappled finality of parking lots

—they've been doing that for years.

Lots of species were reading the forms of a greasy bag

caught them in their stalks, friendly non-arachnid hamburger thorax.

It comes at us from everywhere, reading's unfamiliar walking.

People are crying out, washing oil from feathers.

Emergent feathers read the sky feral

with slicked-back wings, with wings wetted down.

Our seed heads produce a nagging entropic demand,

people seem to think it would be a fun game or a funny adventure

if it all went up in smoke

their mouths rimmed with hair gel—

we can live off that if we need to.

Disaster, the fallen-to-earth star thistle, so rude in its urges, our companionable

responsibilities secrete a friendship with it, swollen horse mouth.

But our actions yap in the maw interstice

collapse behind the Grocery Outlet;

death god's mouth like a death bed

mouth like a bead of sweat.

The emergency, it had reached a crisis.

Had the emergency reached crisis?

Crisis, it had grown up and become rather a lily

a scarf with printed jewelry billowing like it rued its sentience.