Vaya con dios. the blooms
the frozen orange juice cans
sweat in the trees. what
are those trees.
are they Saturday
trees. an easy day
they say. the green hummingbirds
leaving town.
they are always telling lies.
they don’t know nothing
like I know nothing.
Go to hell.
Saturday is another
lie without trees: the
newspaper’s headlines
thaw out across the
tablecloth. who can read it.
god’s not home
in the trees she flies
inside of.
I’m not home. no one
eats breakfast. they suffocate
in pillows. Leave me
alone. her hair, etc.
god is an apartment with
magnolias blooming lemony above
a table & chair.
how long did we live there.