Two Poems

Plastic by the Time


Tongue cupped, I don't care
even at all about polar bears.
I, like laundry, work. Lint unpaid
paves on as if a road. Invent
the borders. Avert the fold in on
the self's project. That's the coupon
that builds the greenest circle
out of every dry-forked pea. If not
nonfat, did we even whim a hair
pillow and all, from caring more.
What if my fingertips are the world
that I refrain from, caramel.



Then the beak retreats.
Then the dirt didn't know itself

how digital it really was, now
how when it erupts cloudless

there are many squares scattered
there are distinct dirt red patches

which fling up across the solid
which fling up against the blue

of receiving an imessage
of not wanting any green.