The future I want is a backyard bird of paradise hovering above a Jack Russell Terrier with wispy puppet strings seen in the afternoon light,
of collaboration as a matter of obvious course,
not something to be tossed into the muted wilderness
where a wolf treks through the darkened pines and peers up at the moon
wondering just how poorly he’ll be represented in a seaside t-shirt;
where when the tennis ball flies, the dog flies (gallops and springs);
where when the dog flies, the bird flies;
where when the bird flies, I fly;
where wings grow in the backyard like persimmons;
where the is sun in the street trailed by the gentle brush stroke of bird song;
where Joan Miró counts the ladders in his garage in front of his house across the street;
where I nap on the couch and the clock hands form a whispering hush
and where the act of giving it a name doesn’t reveal its name.