Details We’re Too Young to Know

The century has tools inside its body.
We’re losing our arms, but we still see our fingers.

Up on a gray hill, two owls sit waiting
for field mice to start their long run home.

I leave milk out for possums, coons, stray cats,
hand-sized furry spiders, old goats: nothing.

The last two years needed weeding and threshing.
I won’t stand in their way again.

My brick childhood smears tar on dream-geese.
The bed feels sad about losing its favorite boy.

I pronounce every word of your morning luck.
I close my eyes, and that is what it means.

The parrot lies dead in its cage,
a pile of chocolate shavings on its plate.

I don’t have a prayer, or even an onion.
I close my eyes again, and this is also what it means.

James Cushing
from Pinocchio's Revolution


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