nice this time of year,
what with the cherry festival,
all the hotel clerks passing out
little plastic cups of dried fruit,
chiseled high school kids
raking the beaches. Even the perch
seem especially patient
with the removal of hooks.
The barbs jelly their tiny black eyes,
which slide sideways like
Whatever, man. Then the Vicodin
sunsets—such gorgeous
nauseousness—send glistening,
smoky helices across
the lake’s surface. It’s
dizzying. They say sleeping
on the ground is good
for the spine, plus all those spiders
slip right in—the mouth’s a sort of
portal to the soul, but
that’s not how it goes. Something
about the pupils. Spiders
survive everything, or is it
mosquitoes. Roaches.
Probably an abortion story
would begin a bible
devoted totally to misery,
a thousand-some neon pages,
each one saying basically
the same thing—why is the horizon