talking to the dead
is like shaking the dice of live bees
in your cupped hand
all my butterflies
are in the rib cage
they only fly
during Mardi Gras
their blue eyes open
 
Let’s have another drink
in the casino of reflections
How much do we have left
I’m voting for her smile
I’m voting for his raised fist
I’m voting against how he takes the stairs
I’m voting for my cat
feathering my ankle with his tail

I’m consulting the dead
shaking the dice of live bees
The croupier gets his cut
a tyranny of surface prevails
inner realms erased
by the night time cleaning crew
showcases dazzle us
at 10 am in Bloomingdale’s
 
Across the meadow
geese feed without worry
there’s always a lookout
scanning for coyotes
his black neck held high
the thin creek seeps
through the flattened gray grass
our lookout’s a traitor in disguise
 
all my butterflies
are in the rib cage
they only fly
during Mardi Gras
their blue eyes open