This is a poem not a lambchop
lamplight isn't filling spaces of the room
nothing to be done but find the screwdriver, it fits so neatly in the slot
with the milk, the crackers, the honey, and the milk.
And then the milk was gone.  And everyone started to cry
this is how the greatest lake was born,
from underneath the flap of my heart
i saw tiny bees knitting, one was remembering her favorite weekend
making music buzzing above the nectar that sticks
...I have not rascaled the fruitbats gull 1987
your vibraphone, the gutter, it was a bunch of needles
I wanted to sing in a freeway dialect, I am sorry
for concealing my reliability and so-so-ness
(that was not my only inheritance from my grandma)