Mine are in the boots of incorrect

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

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


Every stair
A vast bite

A paperclip of

Black holes are
A wound
Of clouds

God is pragmatic
And perpendicular to angels

that death is here

so why contrive its allure

whey outlive its lament why sell hours to the banter of angels

why submit to the edges and the fury of daisies

the hell I swallow rings with the honestly of ghosts

the deal is I take up a ladder to the eave and listen for the footsteps of dusk put lipstick on

listen to the careless elbows of late winter morning frost

I enter the room. But this does not take place. I leave the room. As I have done before.

The door is ajar. The branches in the sun are not available for refund. This is taking place.

A night to walk the breath I am not coming back.

Wind are the cheap poems through barbwire parasols. Footfalls of electromagnetic touchdowns.

Tucked away in the back pocket
Of a star are a hundred empty poems

The moon
Pulls itself on board
Just in time
As the green meadows of the sun
Crawl into the streets

Tonight shadows perform
With a mind
Like canvas shoes just back from an acid trip

I have been stung by a sunshine of scarlet
The tread marks of dusk

Don’t ask me to repeat any of this

From the dark cube of the sun
Laughing like an angry recipe

Filling its belly on rain
And the wrists of April