You shook your head. This wasn’t
Going to be easy.
I held you up for the stars to seethe.
But more to the point.
Your bald feet nibbled on the
Wild stairs.
Hands became bodies. Hands
As beautiful as a trapeze.
A curfew of pulled nails.
You brought a hammer.
You
Are me. I am you.
I shook my head. This wasn’t
Going to be easy.
I am ready
For the perfect legs I don’t remember
The silence of swim suits in the branches of stars
For the shaman to burn my habits and pull the cosmos out of a sock
The sleeveless sun like an alphabet flying a kite
If I should
Head home
By now.
Back
To the
Strange
Shoelaces
Of angles.
But that’s how you remember
Black holes are timeless.
And
It is in life
You find the words
For words you don’t
Know.
Evolution manages imagination.
To perturb the air
The moon
In gallant horseplay
Seems to be as still as a chimney.
Though it has no use for ladders.
The kites on Mars
Are as blue as the sea.
But don’t let depression garble you yet.
There is the melancholy of the heart
To broach this night of shoulders
And elbows.
The poem can be
Black as a match head.
Vigilante as applesauce.
A wink in the thunder.
A thud on the daisies.
An illumination
Flipped
On its side
Kicking at balloons.
Wish me luck.
Where are you dandelions
On the edge of summer’s breath
The stars are volume and sound
And depending on mass
May end up as holes
Where are you exiled feet
The weight of distance
Is the circle’s end
I published a field study
On the aerodynamics
Of solitude
And found that it could swim
the poem will look of light and sod the vacuum and praise the love and aloof
a stuttering child on a chalk elephant
the shirt of chance the belly of god
the sound of jars in light
I could put it away or put a table in a puddle
tamper with the lineation go ahead bury it will it grow
I will tell them then again not
Silence is translation
A smirk of distance a fever up the spine from the heels
I close the windows to increase the draft
first
sound out
the words
begin with
g-r-a-v-i-t-y
the tulips of a gas
giant
next
parenthesis
everything
(th(e t)ul(ips) of (a) gas)
g)ia(nt
and mostly
last
the idea of the self
just as meaning
really is less
meaning
a grasshopper
on a
concrete whisper
