Sometimes it’s a decade before the world finally hits.

For instance: the simple life caught up with you

by accident. Outside, the heads of kangaroos

are put in a bucket and mashed up like potatoes.

There is always infrastructure, or lack of it:

the papers piling up on the desk, the shortage

of housing. The plants reach towards the light

like silence reaches towards sound, and you

no longer know where to put the slap-dash

of your life-waste. Empty those buckets

on the neighbor’s front porch and go home

to your wife. Fuck her from behind and then

make her a cup of tea, as if that’s a decent reach

towards equality. On the other side of accident

green turns to brown which turns to green again.

Plurality becomes one-one, not one-two,

which is not sense – it’s nonsense, and kangaroos.