Last year it was the woodpecker, and now it is the bathroom floor,
the garage door, the heaters, the refrigerator, the bicycle. The mundane
decaying around us. Now I’ll make another Gilbert box. Yes,
Gilbert. I know, but I love the one with the Lord and the dead fish,
their eyes full of rooms. I’m thankful for the poem because it’s small.
A short form. Something you can accomplish while your kids are napping,
like Plath did. Just enough room for a fledgling and something bleeding.
