A squeak, irregular

Cage, John

Sit outside, in the sun or the shade, with a notebook and listen.

Imaginary Landscape No. 1:

Siren and bird call—a warning, an announcement.

Plucking strings, a crash. I’m going offline. Doctor!

Stagger, fall. My heart is a deep ocean finder.

Imaginary Landscape No. 2:

I am now under the sea. Paint cans and sea shells.

Quiet now, blowfish. That Greek blue, in the afternoon.

Time to take a nap. Time to lead a parade.

Imaginary Landscape No. 3:

Coffee. Children in the kitchen, in the cupboards.

A whale song. The aliens have landed. Zeeep.

I will pot up plants in ground coffee beans

and water them with soy sauce.

Imaginary Landscape No. 4:

Walking into the radio. What did they listen to, in the beginning?

Searching channels for you, riding waves.

A clear signal, unclear. Piano and pop, politics.

A voice—whose? No news of you.

4’33’’:

That’s not an ocean, it’s the highway.

A squeak, irregular. The dishwasher is on.

The sound of my head turning left and right.

My thumb nail, my tooth.

My tides. Now I hear it, the sun,

and the ants marching across the yard.

I’m in the spot where I’ve always been.

There are the birds.