The sheep are sighing like planets.
Today, a man dresses himself
for the first time, hand over hand,
eye over hook, slaps his cheeks
with 'so be it,' then crosses
the great divide. Tonight, outer space
is cobbling together incantations
from no-names, and the cats are pacing.
Think of nosedives, or what happens
to make two-thirds of a deer
on the interstate. To eat burgers
in the cemetery, sled between headstones,
sweat through bible belts
with the windows down. It's okay
to dream about sleeping
bears, paddle to Wisconsin overnight.
Nothing seems lost enough
for pleasantries yet. Every day,
someone keeps crying without
a seatbelt on, and these peninsulas
look more like fire escapes.
Anne Cecelia Holmes is originally from Michigan (point to the center of your hand and it's there), but currently lives in Amherst, MA, where she is pursuing her MFA. She co-runs Grommet Press and says "pop," not "soda.".