From the Fishouse

Ideal: to drive the lane and look for dishes,
to see the open man, give him his bucket.

The one-on-one for which we are now counseled
blueprints a perfect symmetry that’s hard to hold.

Like my friend who dreams of his ex
and wakes to find a moonlit lawn of deer.

In our nightly houses
the dolls insist that we are faithful to ourselves

When I wake up in a bad mood,
I wonder why my point ignores my shooting guard.

This realm of giving, this realm of reciprocity:
I need a Mr. Make-It-Happen,

a deus ex machina, an all-star
down among us who deigns to fix our gears.

Until then, these uptake-inhibitors are splendid,
as when I find myself a deer on some strange lawn,

my garden-party head a promiscuity of maps
with toll-free grassy lanes and cul de sacs.