Daily Poem: April 25

Shit Charlie Says


I once threw a crab apple
with perfect form
and it broke late,
with a little arm-side cut and
exploded
against a shipping container.

The birdsong
is a heavy object
and either
hangs
or
is projected
downward

by the lightning bolts
of powerful storm,
relentless rain without
mourning or sorrow.

How could there not be a ghost out there,
illuminated
by flash
or glow of cellphone,
striking matches,
looking for codes
in the Sunday Times?

I re-play games
by the score in my head,
or vice versa,

to smell earth and illusion
of victory.
Charlie tells me
to take a load off.

Pick up any illustrated bible,
he says, you’ll see,
you’ll see. Look
for the animals,
always doing
next to nothing,
he says:

That’s the ticket, he says.