Aujourd'hui

The why question,
I believe I pose many times
about the puzzle pieces fitting a certain way,
about the sunmoon binaries in world-weighing ways opposing.

I tried to cage feathers in flight
but time blew out through the bars
as I printed its nocopy centerfold,
its penchant for successful sound travesty,
its hope that it means
to say what it means
is to say that it feels
in some way near the wingbeat of birds.

I yearn to be a lonely girl at this world's
stag sitting by the corn fields of the daily time's penchant, on le juor,
where you touch me like I were a letter to be sent;
you lick the top of what I am yet you pass it around like the menu
I am reading, de jour,
French things and porcupines and other worldly
things becoming grabbable when synchronized with
the cupping of my hands.
What you pour, then,
I catch and heap for that certain impointed time
when you ask to have your cup refilled with wine
and I'll give you whatever I've got
in measured spoons and leveled amounts.
Tell me it's not enough,
I'll ask you why,
you'll ask me about my day
and I'll say it went okay,
because I wouldn't quite be listening to the nuances
reverberating between the corridor walls
where I'm expected to walk and talk,
learn and yearn for answers,
yet finding none.


Keep that a secret, will you?
The why question, has no answer,
because it ultimately asks the same
of what has been given as the same.
What carrot can you make from a carrot?
What layer can you spread from a couche?
What day can you seize from un jour?
Aujourd'hui.