you become anything

Your callnotes can strike the empty

fairgrounds after the rodeo trucks home.

You can rip the frail tin from rooftops

and fling it over backyard gardens.

You can throb through the freckles

on a cute girl’s face, wait for the highest

wave to rise and bullet through the blue.

You can knot the nosehairs of old folks

as they nap, unsheathe the half invisible

prophecy, stare through isinglass, screech

at bluejays, trap rubies of sap from pines.

You can open a restaurant, serve only

Rocky Mountain Oysters and Budweiser,

shoot at the full moon with a scattergun,

and drive a Monster Truck, or you can

come back to life and squeeze our hands.





christopher lee miles (LeRoy, MN, 1982)