A Poem That Isn't for People

I have rather enjoyed spending my life
writing the poem that isn't for people.

Lost weekend of the butterfly,
thwack of the snow heavy pine branch

that suddenly snaps insanely free.
I don't feel like a joke.

Mountains and dust bunnies
will always elude explanation

in a way people will not,
not even our scariest monsters.

I understand human doom.
I really do.

It's simple.

But the quack of a duck
coming down with asshole sounds

into a contented drift
and clutch of his placid fellows

on a freezing February creek...
I'll take that funny mystery to the grave.