"PS: all along it was me"
Ana Boičević

PS: all along it was me.

From noise of dust motes                        rice grains pink with pesticide, pre-furniture—

                        

gentle fistface, walk

 

into the shadow of the barn. How light + impatient you dried my

kid-hair by the tree-stump oven. I warmed your bearskin

while you upped the linden dust from between the floorboards.

 

And re: happy-sad, happy-sad—how did you know

this grasshopper would be bigger than the valley?

And if the cow eats clover and blows up its guts

how big a bang is that? Not to these shores,

 

blanket for star-watching. Here, some several hundred blue

 

lawnchairs

are rained on

 

in the quadrangle

of tall rust-colored projects. These objects need you,

and in needing you, they need me too:

 

the overgrown stuff’s all me, the gibberish and the slop.

 

+ dust.

To flying lay another grain on top of that pile is freedom.