301 Moved Permanently

301 Moved Permanently


Seasonal Goods

One season, I caught a rat under a recycling bin
and waited for letters. This became less an activity

and more a solid thing activities play out against,
like built-in storage units, or a trampoline flush

with the floor, or even a long, quiet pipeline riffing
some crucial element from nowhere special

to nowhere else. My memory of this time
looks like a demo reel coaxed from cutting room

floor-scraps of an unfunded mumblecore flick.
The urge to package events by their season

is strong. Someone told me recently that a country
should be what you can drive across in a day.

When I went to see the place the letters came from,
I spent three days watching scenery trill past

windows wide as bedsheets, like stock footage
overriding a green screen to offer proof of motion.

I arrived in patio season. The sun regularly
outstayed what I considered its welcome.

A cluster of coincidences had hooked in me
like the barbed end of a taser, convinced me

to cross the ungainly country in the first place.
I’ll admit, I was looking to feel synchronicity

blooming underfoot like a small rampage
of low-grade earthquakes, and my instrument

for measuring inevitability was probably
more sensitive than it needed to be.

I took a different land-locked route home,
but the view was the same.

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