In this world, too late.  The celestial dachshund
yelps out and springs in on impala’s legs, squeals rubber wheels
and steel to catch the flying birds, but here.

                                                            We are therefore.  A thus,
thrushes pumping melody in the dark, no clockwork lark
at all, the interest.  They may choke on it; they may wish
never to have been artists with cards, a platinum voice
in a plastic ‘verse.  
                                    But on earth, see, you want definite debt,
an existence built on dinners out and clothes, home
repairs, and the extermination of certain pests.  The nesting
kind, if you must know, with your pay here and your you wish.

Therefore, bill me later—I will—for time off, the day paid
and satisfied with the paper cells of the wasps’ silver
nest.  How the sterling shivers in its box to hear

the voice’s bell. May I speak to your manager,
Trish? Oh, I do so owe you and the check wings
through the mail to toll myself. How about: instead:
on my death, I bequeath you my dachshund aspirations:

to cry and fly as well
                                                as I wish.