The brush burn of dusk. The abstract knuckles of the soul. I square root solitude, but I never grow weary of distance’s forearms.
And if I pause, here, at the ditch before the moon, to sum up
The piles of self greedily practicing the baton.
The shadow of a square root
As I fitted my boots with abstract feathers.
Shapes of self cannot keep pace with a gutsy widening.
The pain is such that we will have to wobble home
Uncanny with size.
The beauty you have
Like cold fog on a pane
Peonies under a stupid moon
I lugged this debacle
Chasing your fastidiousness
I massed a mess
Of sails and picked up the wind
As one would a bottle cap
Or turn on the radio
Now do I have you?
I call out my memories
Onto report cards of joy
A pillow case of flames up against
The upheaval of the sea
Life is a sure match
Of waves against waves
And you are gone
in the spaces between words some find a footing. on a silence there is no getting one’s head around.
so let them cashier us let them muddle thoughts and beg our wants but never the soil will not ring with the footfalls of clumsy angels.
the hot night of the hot hotel of the mouth.
because I quit this tenement of capital.
Mine are in the boots of incorrect
Math.
I begin in puddles. The rings of sky. The graph paper of spring walks. The footfalls of ghosts.
Don’t close
The windows, the draft
Is my fault.
Pull up your sleeves.
Or don’t bother.
This year April will be
A composer.
I abbreviated my address
I moved in with
the subtle sticks
of thunder’s heart
a disaster as
pretty as a cowlick
as frugal
as a watermelon
a sonata for a shoelace
and a dozen or so kinds
of infinities
but I have no more wallets in time
no polish in need of shoes
this is what I know
bogus pillows sleeplessly blue
Heaps
Of long legs belong to
The afternoon
I can’t get enough of early mornings
Or swearing at the moon
I eat the whispers of birds
Cough fire but do not disturb the cobwebs
If you squeeze silence together
Pick it up
It is a bell
Too loud to ring
A ball too round
To roll
Keep going
To the left
The comet
Sneezed
A
Contrapposto
Distance
Every stair
A vast bite
A paperclip of
Stars
Black holes are
A wound
Of clouds
God is pragmatic
And perpendicular to angels
