My kneecap is a magnet for mosquitos.
They assemble under the picnic pavilion
And form a small cloud, the shape of a Pierre’s
Kerchief falling from his chin.
In the forest the large mushrooms bloom.
They are a theater.
They are a light show. Green light
Or Pierre is spilling the jar of pickles.
My sadness is a bag of stones.
My sadness is a pile of pulled weeds.
My sadness is so tired of lawn care.
My sadness is Pierre, eyes open, underwater.
I go home and wrap myself in linoleum.
Pierre is watching a movie about Martin Luther King.
The quiet highway leads to a mountain.
Squint hard and you can seep out of your skin.
I have a red hammer
Three nails and a wall.
Pierre, I can hang a picture for you.
My friend Pierre is obsessed with clouds.
He rented a fog machine and for hours
Filled his house with a fine mist.
Finally Pierre has learned to sleep.
I left the faucet on
And a small red bird
Came to drink from the stream.
I named him Pierre.
I left the window open
And the storm clouds rained
And the rain washed away the dirty dishes.
Pierre, you are a splendid housekeeper!
When the city swells with the smell of fabric softener
And sudden buds of white laundry flap
Against the stone-gray sky
I know Pierre is singing from the window.