Start to think of progress
in terms of not having made any.
It has been five years and the hero's tongue
is still lost under the wallpaper.
He doesn't look for it anymore.
He sits there and drinks vegetable juices
through a straw, apparently satisfied
that it's somewhere in the room.
Every year the earth gets smaller,
two or three inches at the equator,
but at the same time slightly heavier.
It is the aliens that sneak into the world
as birthday candles that refuse to go out;
that extra light accounting
for the additional weight.
Things become odd without becoming complicated
Mythologies are invented to lit the elders
be elders while they're still young
than lapse into obscurity.
The senses sway like a house trailer
crowded with hungry parrots.
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