Quiet Grass, Green Stone, Dean Young

I love when out of nowhere

I love when out of nowhere

my cat jumps on me

and my body isn’t even surprised.

Me who wants to be surprised by everything

like a dandelion

like a bottle cap

cricket cricket.

I keep waiting for the god under the anthill to speak up.

I keep waiting for the part of the myth

where everyone tunrs into a different bird

or the reeds start talking

or horses come out of the ocean

in their parliamentary regalia

and cities grow from their hoofprints.

I keep waiting for the bugle

and the jackal-headed god to weigh my heart across the river.

All this daylight in just a few moments

pours itself into darkness. More and more

I’m satisfied with partial explanations

like a fly with one wing, walking.