Mathews Huey

Mathews Huey




Your punch-drunk something or other

snores perfume in his recliner.


Outside, a lawnmower strikes

basalt, or mammoth tusk.


An earsplit dog

yelps its owner’s name.


The second rocket

launch of the day quakes the yard.


In the meantime, your wingspan

tangles, becomes gale-torn, too spurious


to remember its strength, ribcage

uncoiling like a silver fern


in acid rain.

The world you’ve been wearing


as a scarf gashes at the neck, butterflies away.

Imagine how embarrassed


the dinosaurs would be if they knew

how rabid you are, how featherless.