baby, let’s go somewhere with a bomb

report from the field: no wheat, but a house 
     with a sugar maple. we could 
          have syrup kisses for breakfast, 

               sir. there are birds with their empty words & 
                    I’m eager to execute with 
                         a sword for a tongue, sir. the tree 
               

bleeds. the tree bleeds its leaves. sir, the leaves lap 
     at my edges. my good boots are 
          stained & no amount of polish 

               will restore the steel toes, sir. there’s no one 
                    to gather the leaves in their arms 
                         & burn them like a lover, sir.
     

there’s no passage free of pixelated
     headlines. sir, about the war: there’s 
          no one here for me to stamp out 

               like stray embers. couldn’t locate any 
                    sunflowers either. but, sir, there’s 
                         a bower we could cower in


together. shoot down the tree, sir. swing your 
     sword like a golf club, substitute horror 
          for hero. in the arbor, I 

               found a fork & then I stuck it into 
                    a gaping socket. I branded 
                         my palm with foreign fingers. your 


hand can still find a home there, sir. let those 
     birds binge on cloud until their eggs 
          hatch. let them have their piece by piece 
          
               babies & their all at once babies. their
                    babies fat as butternut squash.
                         sir, let’s blow a hole in the sky.