If you are made for flight, intended for it,
you had better find a pursuer, fast.
Otherwise all that fleeing is going nowhere.
This bull, he’s got a bad intent, he wants
to hog the entire corner of the picture.
The girl is looking tasty to the espying putti.
This small bird crisscrossing my childhood
at enormous speed, outrunning everything,
running out of road to run down, running
out of canyon, running out of cartoon
runs out of the cartoon, never to return.
That’s why this landscape looks forlorn.
The world turned upside down and shaken
like a piggybank, the one last coin
rattling around inside, just coughed it up.
