CODA

all the melodies are gone, and seldom does it ring
should a bell kiss a hammering at dawn 
or the peck of a pigeon in its mischief
to gild the lily of its coo.

all the toys have wandered off
and you’re left with the farm
jutting from the groundless.

your pantry full of dusty citrus
and storms that gather bandages
to wrap tornados in.

and there’s always a terrible sun,
with it’s exploding heart
hovering over picnics…

all the time.