Spring peepers call in fall when light
levels are right, a spider picks up scent
in the air with its leg hair, rhyme rhythms meaning
and makes meaning momentarily hold
so the world flows fluidly, the world
of verdigrised verbiage
that must be scraped till green flakes off.

Refresh, refresh, please, the page.
Start over with hair falling out.
Look at the growth
rings in my bones. Look at my dreams:
who stuffed falling leaves in there.

Is the idea me is a we?
Am I the one who this body rents?

Be a good world, sleep, get rest.
Be a good me, don’t test the world.
Be a good word, eat up cobwebs.
Be a good good, something sayable and warm.