by Karl Zuehkel
I bruise as easily as plums
and sleep like a clinched fist.
My ax loses its handle
so I swing it like a heart.
Offer me moths so I can speak
pearls and silkworms.
Under a loose floorboard
I keep old lenses, a clover,
a jar of napalm and a jar of bile.
When you ask for aspirin
I brew tea out of willow bark.
I offer you mice pelts
when you ask for an owl.
