If you are made for flight, intended for it,

you
had better find a pursuer, fast.

Otherwise all that fleeing is
going nowhere.

This bull, he’s got a bad intent, he wants

to hog the entire corner of the picture.

The girl is
looking tasty to the espying putti.

This small bird
crisscrossing my childhood

at enormous speed, outrunning
everything,

running out of road to run down, running

out
of canyon, running out of cartoon

runs out of the cartoon, never
to return.

That’s why this landscape looks forlorn.

The
world turned upside down and shaken

like a piggybank, the one
last coin

rattling around inside, just coughed it up.