'Calamity' is too much of a beautiful word to be something horrible

Tonight I am the tiniest bird
with a beer belly:
full of shit and Woodchuck cider.

She's telling me, it's the end of the night,
honey, you have to go home.
I'm just ripening, ready to tell him:

I won't fall into your secondhand,
lemon yellow love. I'll need brighter.
I won't fall into the I-10 meteor crater,

alone with the dead deer bones
and missing dogs howling
for nocturnal mothers.

But how do I open my eyes
when they both see in different ways?
How do I open my eyes,

when one sees the banana
and the other sees the fruit fly?
And then, how do I rid of him,

naturally? Can you itch and chew and yawn
away a person? How do I rid of a rind
so thick, when lemons and mineral spirits

wash murky away with grey?
And where does the grey begin to sleep
and the deep canary fly?