Catskills
I see a shooting star
and don’t
make a wish.
Is this fucking Buddhism,
I ask Dan
who is passed out
in the grass to my right.
He has an app
that shows a giraffe
in the sky.
A gladiator. Mars.
Yesterday,
I stalked
rabbit tracks
in the snow
until I felt the animal
didn’t want
to be found.
I don’t want
anything
except Zoloft
but stop short
of ingesting.
I am so controlled
this year.
I fuck no one.
I don’t drink
myself
into any emergency.
I pass on acid.
I do a little blow.
Tonight,
I bow to a choir
of trees, a majestic
grove of evergreens
who feed
nightly
on stars.
I like you, I say
to a Douglass fir,
which is a joke
because I like
no one
and can’t remember
that feeling,
the one like
awaiting
your lover’s figure
in a polaroid
to emerge.
I am an 80’s myth.
and go
to basketball games
on Christmas,
eat Chinese
and worry
over all the Catherine’s
I know.
I thought
the rabbit print
was a bear at first
because
I’m a city kid
and an idiot.
There was panic
and then
disappointment
that
it belonged
to a body so slight
when
I just want
to be dwarfed
by everything
these days.
