Poetry- Coyote


This table likes to wobble, and so
does the chair.  Hard to keep a sense
of focus
or balance.  I stop thinking about typing
and start paying attention
to gravity,
what an axis is, to the flute crying
of a coyote
slivering over these moonlight slopes.  I keep trying to fix it,
looking underneath, wiggling things— I want a good footing, but it’s a no go,
and the coyote, I didn’t know,
they make this sound,
a hollowing out that requires a moon.  It’s some sort
of deformed magic, or perhaps it is the floor,
or me…
for it does not shake
until I sit in it.  I decide to write after all— the birth
of dance rambles
up from the floor.  I ride it
as the heaving leads to words.