Rebuilding the Coop

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REBUILDING THE COOP


Something in youth was okay to duck

beneath the screw-studded 2x4


of the door and reach blindly

into the open mouth of a paint bucket 


for whatever was waiting there.

I still believe in the muted sheen of gold 


each day offers, and there’s no doubt 

that claiming it will always take 


a shit-stained pair of boots, a certain

blindness, the risk of reaching-for, 


but I have felt—more keenly of late—

the gaze of the half-domesticated dragon


eyeing the sleepy village of my back

as I stoop to swipe the hoard, 


have yet to grab the blacksnake

with the sun halfway down its throat 


but have come close. It’s still a yolky yes

from me, but also now a fragile how 


best to receive the gift, to re-

structure our shelters accordingly.


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