Half-fear a chandelier falling
one’s made of tusks
beside portraits of goblins
on the wall time-greened
goblets containing mysteries
oil paintings can’t answer
I was reluctant but we
had a loud seat at the
last table, the closest
in our observable universe
(a prophet holds a decade
old brochure, taps her shins
the same dance I thought
I made up last week clapping
and hollering) the room a loud
bluebell wreaths of light
trees of a traditional
American mindset (all
garbled rebirth and sin)
What can’t an accordion
do? The accordion is new
a drone of pressed blackberries
on a machine in engineered air
in which your crumbled piece
of paper reverses its
timeline (the pen
we belabored to find
behind finished wood)
going as far back
as to the simple
piano (all string and
hammer) whoever
doesn’t sweat
by the end of tonight
isn’t worth my time

(originally published in Poetry Super HIghway, Fall 2024)