Call the sparrows in the yellow tree yellow.
They are brown. Call her hip the arc
of the day where it disturbs
the absolute surface of the bed.
The sparrows timbrel and tam-tam.
The sound of the highway is sadder than usual.
Inside me there are electrical impulses
birds’s songs incite, others truck traffic fires.
Where shall we pin the—? A casket cart
grumbles down the sidewalk, product
of a red factory. An anachronism
is the clang of an iron bar
the flower man bangs to distinguish
his wagon wheels’ rumble. An instinctive
silence glazes through bodies.
—blame or our hopes I wanted
to make a distinction among the vehicles
electircal dead and alive the yellow leaves
sings the sparrows fly internally her hip passes
zenith unabsolutes our days.
—Richard Meier, “Products, Promises”
Photography Credit Katrin Binner