Sheets fresh from the line. Wind. Advice from the back seat. Looking at the world through the wrong end of the binoculars. A squirrel runs the telephone line, nut in its mouth. All the usual corny Jesus sky sunset big fauna stuff you can’t put in a poem because the avant-gardists would barf in sieves. A glass of milk, oranges, chalk dust in a sharp line across your coat, the cat belly up under sunshine. Damselflies. La belle dame, thanks! The monocle, shush, shaved ice and former planets, shredded news, an empty box, shush, flora, the door is open. My dear, open the door and let in all of the light.