CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant ten
December 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Cucumbers Are Related To Lemons
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you return with
a second bottle it’s cheaper
and goes with fewer foods
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an automated message
from the library
it cheers me up
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tucked in her back
pocket a pink packet
of artificial sweetener
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looking at the veins on
your hands I think about
the planet Neptune
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on the blanket on
the grass a few magazines
their different odors
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waking in a strange bed
without my pants
a seagull at the window
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above the bowl of
apples a mosquito
slow from the blood
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swollen in the shallow
creek a novel open
near the center
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a love letter to
the butterfly gods with
strategic misspellings
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dusk turns gray and
hazy and breaks off into
several angry girls
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the pill in my pocket
looks smaller
than it did this morning
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the breakfast special
missing a few letters
not quite spring
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at the urinals
we talk about our allergies
the war loses ground
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a weed in bloom where
the fence’s torn back
the links gleam
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the rain sounds
different when I lean my
head against your head
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the fly that kept me
up all night I find
him on the shelf
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in the parking lot she
notices the two notes
stuck to my door
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in a small white bowl
the lentils
no one is going to cook
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looped over itself
once a rubberband in
the drinking fountain drain
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the smell of heather under
the bridge the black water
makes no sound
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she says it’s like
eating a pecan after
having walnuts
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one tied to the other
a pair of shoelaces
floating down the river
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it’s been about
a year she suggests
you take a vitamin
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when I look back
the light is gone from
the blue pine
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your sock in the corner
of the closet a thin shoot
sprouting from it
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the office at midnight
a grain of rice
in my chair
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one light on at
the laundromat a blue towel
left on a dryer
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while he’s talking
to the cop she
eats his hot dog
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its view obstructed
by blossoms the room
a little darker
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we barely speak
she leaves me a pear
she picked on a farm
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just beyond the reach
of the light the plum
sags on one side
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I meet the twin she
never mentioned the mist
lit briefly by the sun
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the doctor’s office
a magazine left open
face down on the couch
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blown down by the wind
stiff white washcloths
holding their shape
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the blue jays have a spat
some cherry pits left on
a three of spades
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the girls on the bus
discuss places
on their bodies
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a headline declares
the war goes badly the red
umbrellas closed up
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on the toilet she
mentions that cucumbers are
related to lemons
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in the dust in
the corner the curling
tops of tea packets
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reading the lives
of great people I shave
a little more frequently
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pieces of the moth
that got stuck in the envelope
slide out
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lit briefly by
headlights a tree at
the edge of the woods
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other analogous
rifts in your story
about the plums
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the slow guy who
just got fired he asks me
if I’ve seen a bear
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the lump in the pillowcase
a pair of her panties
I’ve never seen
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we get home from
our trip the brown crayon
we left on the table
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the hand that always
aches a girl wants to talk
about long division
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in the old peppermint
tin pencil shavings we
argue about pronouns
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the anguish of snails
something to do with
fluorescent light
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a screen door slams
shut the scent of
approaching rain
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left on her desk
three paper cups
each with a little water
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warm rain the homeless
guy offers me a cookie
from his pocket
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my landlord who doesn’t
like crows she opens
the door without knocking
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a cool August evening
in the shopping cart
some crushed daisies
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following me from room
to room a gnat tries
to get in my mouth
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a note from ten
years ago says you’re
going to the store
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a patch on the road
where the streetlight’s out
the sound of moths
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rug burns on my knees
I feel them in line
at the post office
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a chair on fire
in the dumpster melts
the snow as it falls
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some noise in
the dark kitchen it
must be the potatoes
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ant5 
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