Still Evenings in Dry Apricot

Still evenings hit
the woody stems
of jasmine in pots
on sills curling
from the steam of content and radiator.

Something is so blank outside
it attracts nameless
birds of exotic origin to paint it
briefly here and there
chasing the idea of occupying
air of someone else.

And what is the point of a pencil
wearing it all down
from belly and beak undressing an angle
of blackened brick stack and the eastern twist
& texture of a decaying iron bar.

It’s boxes like these that say
the world is blank also.
I age like an astronaut
suited for a new moon. Meanwhile,
I can’t prevent the squirrel
from getting winter fat,
figure out what keeps
tomatoes green. I look around
all I see is steam
beside the jasmine, some empty red
wicker baskets and outlets
with nothing to plug. Condensing.
All the natural sounds of a world
with nothing to do.

I’ll bet there’s a sphere
where the lotería cards come to life
and the characters pretend
they only dance while you’re asleep.

I don’t want to do you
Saturdays anymore. It’s too late
for that kind of continuity.
I’d rather kick the radiator
activate a gurgle
sketch the dullness out of my 2B
find an eraser to introduce light
interact with space a bit.