There, in the dreaming house,
The wasps played against the window.
To the chicken coop,
To warm eggs fresh from the cloaca.
To coffee on the deck,
When the river was soundless
And the dogs were pancakes against the wood.
We took a walk in the forest,
And bounced on beds of moss.
Does existence precede essence?
Among rocks splattered with lichen
Like old dentures drenched in spearmint.
We watched cows pee standing up,
As they are wont to do.
And when the Sun fell down,
I left a note for you
Hidden along the pasture’s edge.
Last I heard it was lost in the bonfire.