Friends, will you bear with me today,



for I have awakened



from a dream in which a robin



made with its shabby wings a kind of veil



behind which it shimmied and stomped something from the south



of Spain, its breast aflare,



looking me dead in the eye



from the branch that grew into my window,



coochie-cooing my chin,



the bird shuffling its little talons left, then right,



while the leaves bristled



against the plaster wall, two of them drifting



onto my blanket while the bird



opened and closed its wings like a matador



giving up on murder,



jutting its beak, turning a circle,



and flashing, again,



the ruddy bombast of its breast



by which I knew upon waking



it was telling me



in no uncertain terms



to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones,



the whole rusty brass band of gratitude



not quite dormant in my belly—



it said so in a human voice,



“Bellow forth”—



and who among us could ignore such odd



and precise counsel?







Hear ye! hear ye! I am here



to holler that I have hauled tons—by which I don’t mean lots,



I mean tons — of cowshit



and stood ankle deep in swales of maggots



swirling the spent beer grains



the brewery man was good enough to dump off



holding his nose, for they smell very bad,



but make the compost writhe giddy and lick its lips,



twirling dung with my pitchfork



again and again



with hundreds and hundreds of other people,



we dreamt an orchard this way,



furrowing our brows,



and hauling our wheelbarrows,



and sweating through our shirts,



and two years later there was a party



at which trees were sunk into the well-fed earth,



one of which, a liberty apple, after being watered in



was tamped by a baby barefoot



with a bow hanging in her hair



biting her lip in her joyous work



and friends this is the realest place I know,



it makes me squirm like a worm I am so grateful,



you could ride your bike there



or roller skate or catch the bus



there is a fence and a gate twisted by hand,



there is a fig tree taller than you in Indiana,



it will make you gasp.



It might make you want to stay alive even, thank you;







and thank you



for not taking my pal when the engine



of his mind dragged him



to swig fistfuls of Xanax and a bottle or two of booze,



and thank you for taking my father



a few years after his own father went down thank you



mercy, mercy, thank you



for not smoking meth with your mother



oh thank you thank you



for leaving and for coming back,



and thank you for what inside my friends’



love bursts like a throng of roadside goldenrod



gleaming into the world,



likely hauling a shovel with her



like one named Aralee ought,



with hands big as a horse’s,



and who, like one named Aralee ought,



will laugh time to time til the juice



runs from her nose; oh



thank you



for the way a small thing’s wail makes



the milk or what once was milk



in us gather into horses



huckle-buckling across a field;







and thank you, friends, when last spring



the hyacinth bells rang



and the crocuses flaunted



their upturned skirts, and a quiet roved



the beehive which when I entered



were snugged two or three dead



fist-sized clutches of bees between the frames,



almost clinging to one another,



this one’s tiny head pushed



into another’s tiny wing,



one’s forelegs resting on another’s face,



the translucent paper of their wings fluttering



beneath my breath and when



a few dropped to the frames beneath:



honey; and after falling down to cry,



everything’s glacial shine.







And thank you, too. And thanks



for the corduroy couch I have put you on.



Put your feet up. Here’s a light blanket,



a pillow, dear one,



for I can feel this is going to be long.



I can’t stop



my gratitude, which includes, dear reader,



you, for staying here with me,



for moving your lips just so as I speak.



Here is a cup of tea. I have spooned honey into it.







And thank you the tiny bee’s shadow



perusing these words as I write them.



And the way my love talks quietly



when in the hive,



so quietly, in fact, you cannot hear her



but only notice barely her lips moving



in conversation. Thank you what does not scare her



in me, but makes her reach my way. Thank you the love



she is which hurts sometimes. And the time



she misremembered elephants



in one of my poems which, oh, here



they come, garlanded with morning glory and wisteria



blooms, trombones all the way down to the river.



Thank you the quiet



in which the river bends around the elephant’s



solemn trunk, polishing stones, floating



on its gentle back



the flock of geese flying overhead.







And to the quick and gentle flocking



of men to the old lady falling down



on the corner of Fairmount and 18th, holding patiently



with the softest parts of their hands



her cane and purple hat,



gathering for her the contents of her purse



and touching her shoulder and elbow;



thank you the cockeyed court



on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads



made of some runny-nosed kids



a shambles, and the 61-year-old



after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut



from my no-look pass to seal the game



ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods



and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar



grinning across his chest; thank you



the glad accordion’s wheeze



in the chest; thank you the bagpipes.







Thank you to the woman barefoot in a gaudy dress



for stopping her car in the middle of the road



and the tractor trailer behind her, and the van behind it,



whisking a turtle off the road.



Thank you god of gaudy.



Thank you paisley panties.



Thank you the organ up my dress.



Thank you the sheer dress you wore kneeling in my dream



at the creek’s edge and the light



swimming through it. The koi kissing



halos into the glassy air.



The room in my mind with the blinds drawn



where we nearly injure each other



crawling into the shawl of the other’s body.



Thank you for saying it plain:



fuck each other dumb.







And you, again, you, for the true kindness



it has been for you to remain awake



with me like this, nodding time to time



and making that noise which I take to mean



yes, or, I understand, or, please go on



but not too long, or, why are you spitting



so much, or, easy Tiger



hands to yourself. I am excitable.



I am sorry. I am grateful.



I just want us to be friends now, forever.



Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden.



The sun has made them warm.



I picked them just for you. I promise



I will try to stay on my side of the couch.







And thank you the baggie of dreadlocks I found in a drawer



while washing and folding the clothes of our murdered friend;



the photo in which his arm slung



around the sign to “the trail of silences”; thank you



the way before he died he held



his hands open to us; for coming back



in a waft of incense or in the shape of a boy



in another city looking



from between his mother’s legs,



or disappearing into the stacks after brushing by;



for moseying back in dreams where,



seeing us lost and scared



he put his hand on our shoulders



and pointed us to the temple across town;







and thank you to the man all night long



hosing a mist on his early-bloomed



peach tree so that the hard frost



not waste the crop, the ice



in his beard and the ghosts



lifting from him when the warming sun



told him sleep now; thank you



the ancestor who loved you



before she knew you



by smuggling seeds into her braid for the long



journey, who loved you



before he knew you by putting



a walnut tree in the ground, who loved you



before she knew you by not slaughtering



the land; thank you



who did not bulldoze the ancient grove



of dates and olives,



who sailed his keys into the ocean



and walked softly home; who did not fire, who did not



plunge the head into the toilet, who said stop,



don’t do that; who lifted some broken



someone up; who volunteered



the way a plant birthed of the reseeding plant



is called a volunteer, like the plum tree



that marched beside the raised bed



in my garden, like the arugula that marched



itself between the blueberries,



nary a bayonet, nary an army, nary a nation,



which usage of the word volunteer



familiar to gardeners the wide world



made my pal shout “Oh!” and dance



and plunge his knuckles



into the lush soil before gobbling two strawberries



and digging a song from his guitar



made of wood from a tree someone planted, thank you;







thank you zinnia, and gooseberry, rudbeckia



and pawpaw, Ashmead’s kernel, cockscomb



and scarlet runner, feverfew and lemonbalm;



thank you knitbone and sweetgrass and sunchoke



and false indigo whose petals stammered apart



by bumblebees good lord please give me a minute...



and moonglow and catkin and crookneck



and painted tongue and seedpod and johnny jump-up;



thank you what in us rackets glad



what gladrackets us;







and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,



this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw



to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,



oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,



oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting



its head at me from my peach tree’s highest branch,



balanced impossibly gobbling the last fruit,



its tongue working like an engine,



a lone sweet drop tumbling by some miracle



into my mouth like the smell of someone I’ve loved;



heart like an elephant screaming



at the bones of its dead;



heart like the lady on the bus



dressed head to toe in gold, the sun



shivering her shiny boots, singing



Erykah Badu to herself



leaning her head against the window;







and thank you the way my father one time came back in a dream



by plucking the two cables beneath my chin



like a bass fiddle’s strings



and played me until I woke singing,



no kidding, singing, smiling,



thank you, thank you,



stumbling into the garden where



the Juneberry’s flowers had burst open



like the bells of French horns, the lily



my mother and I planted oozed into the air,



the bazillion ants labored in their earthen workshops



below, the collard greens waved in the wind



like the sails of ships, and the wasps



swam in the mint bloom’s viscous swill;







and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.



I know I can be long-winded sometimes.



I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude



over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,



the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems



slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,







which is precisely what the child in my dream said,



holding my hand, pointing at the roiling sea and the sky



hurtling our way like so many buffalo,



who said it’s much worse than we think,



and sooner; to whom I said



no duh child in my dreams, what do you think



this singing and shuddering is,



what this screaming and reaching and dancing



and crying is, other than loving



what every second goes away?



Goodbye, I mean to say.



And thank you. Every day.





