I saw January

and the sleep around him

glowed like embers.

I think he lives at aisle ten,

at the Trader Joe’s

in Portland Maine.

He tries to keep things warm

but falls apart crying,

knowing he is who he is.

 

He smelled like apples waiting to be born.

 

I know a woman

who can’t escape June;

she bought her heart

at a thrift store

owned by a diminutive

Asian woman.

The Asian woman

smiles every time

Miss June leaves,

knowing her heart will break

because she will fall in love with Mister January.

 

And then there’s someone else I know

and I hate her.

She doesn’t understand that words

are just pointers,

that the Universe and the people in it

are described by words

but are not made of them.

 

She flings them

at you

like empty soda cans,

demanding her five cents

after she gives you her ten.

 

And I hate her.

 

I know nothing. And that’s the same I knew as when I was born

I’ve come home.

 

 

 

 

 

There is an order

and I am part of it

and I will always be a part of it,

no more or less than the Snickers

candy bar wrapper,

making love to the sidewalk

in it’s own way.

 

That is all I know.