Chen Chen

Postsolsticemoodism

When did they show up, the not so little
hairs on my knee?

Do you, too, have a news anchor
voice going going in your head
whenever you read the back of the cereal box?

Isn’t it literature, the gatorade she left in the other room
the other day?

Hasn’t he sensed the needs of a tree, his favorite oak, at least?

Aren’t we in the traveling part of summer?

How did I stop listening to my need to be high up in a tree,
in any
height of tree, in it, at least?

How are you?

(Staying out of trouble?)
(Keeping a bee?)

Don’t you tell me a claw sandwich
doesn’t sound better
than a finger sandwich, you wouldn’t dare, would you?

If we were to slither now, hither would we go?

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