Idle Veins Conducted in Gardens of the Idiot Boy by Daniel Poppick

Now I hear shit in the grass, one minute
Glides by on my cells
And two and three as bluejay nests seize up
The park like thatched wet
Gobs of sleep along some soma’s clownish
Rim. Some tweets meanwhile
Drill white gems to the hymn of several skies.
            The internet is

Succulent with flies, and so I ribbon
            Earth with honeyed traps
That she might also sleep to strumming wings,
            The little badger.
A toss of plastic pearls swing from a girl’s
            Ears like balls, thwhuck thwhick
Thwhuck, air’s thick stomach chockablock with bells.
            Some kids slumber in

The asphodels, and as I hear them with
             A light, the humble
Bees drop pollen on their pink-slapped faces
            Then flock into the
Pixilated screen of hives their empire longs
            To sing them back to
To spill through hexagons of hurt. Worms write
            Documents in dirt.