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Every time you say that these shitty geese take flight for Canada
but they never make it.
A descending V toward the water is how I hear you say that.
No more migration is what I say to this
every time you say that, laughing,
stretching your meniscus film of weather over two of us.
Let's hold it down, drive pickup trucks,
dig a deep ditch every time you say that,
commanding new space, the echo to my ear.
Two tubed televisions bleating the noise, the reasons not to,
the fugitive life,
every time you say that below these laughing geese.
I could almost predict such random occurrence:
The time I folded a pretty pink bow, tied it to your hair,
hoping it would hold fast.
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