H o w i e G o o d
T h e N e w N o r m a l
It can become tiresome,
all this point, counterpoint.
Nobody seems to realize
we should eat nothing but clouds.
Linger someplace too long
and contexts begin collapsing.
I’m sailing with the rockslide,
a crumbling yellow moon.
I’ll be back by my next birthday,
attractive, hip, cradling a lamb,
the lamb looking a little uncomfortable.