How much string is in the world. Who has it. by Michael Tieg

I am, for no good reason, totally obsessed with the title of this poem. It gets stuck in my head at odd moments. I find myself adapting its rhythm to other questions or observations about the world. I love its unorthodox punctuation, its unanswerable nature, its whimsical curiosity. Although I do wish that the "is" were removed from the first sentence - as I originally read it and got it embedded in my brain that way - leaving "in" as the functioning verb, which is also a delightfully odd usage. How much string in the world. Who has it.

How much string is in the world.
Who has it.

There is a dog barking, no dog to see,
the piebald horse seems small for the field.
It is too bright and I need a nap.
It is practically burning with flowers.

I’ve heard of the light
no one wants to be photographed in
and this must be it.

Consider once, it was snowing, I made a little bird
but it was a pathetic thing
all duct tape and longing
and knocking about the chairlegs like a dustball.

I made another but the fucker bit me.
I made another
this one completely empty.

Or how in a good month for conversation
my Uncle Frank in a field sensing deer
shot himself in the foot
and his first wife continued with the dishes
looking out the window at the laundry line,
power line, pig’s ear, who knows?--
and later driving away with the car
while he remained on the couch watching hockey.

Consider the cold and tomatoes come together
and how of course I’d love to have you.
Here, have a balloon. Have two.