put a vase of small pink flowers on a window ledge

look at a field of potatoes for a month

           while not forgetting wars & wars & wars

grow rain inside your lungs

put on woolen gloves

           & only take them off to warm your hands over the fire

fall asleep dreaming of that dead star

kick pebbles along a lane

           then curse your childishness and curse your black boots

pat a wet dog like you never had children

write a letter to the son you never had

smear beetroot on a white wall as you walk through the old town

           waiting for the sun to come

when the sun comes make up a song about how you want to run into it

           but you’re not brave enough and a catholic so you couldn’t go that far

hide your fears in a cigar-box

suck on something that tastes like your mother

raise a toast to zibby boniek and lucy bpm 37093

point to a figure in the crowd and ask them where all the dirt is coming from

do your best at sobbing louder than the public address system that’s shouting

           all those lies again

enter into collusion with the confusion of a patriarchal illusion

take pictures of cream-puffs, or

sit in a downpour and let the drops be your new poem, or

write forty-four lines of ironic resignation

           and rewrite until you die of neglect but still somehow caring