I have kept strict account

Of that which eats tables and spills its socks into the delicious sky

Because it amounts to a hold on light

The swans of Mars are spinsters with mustaches like matchsticks

Usually the birds swallow dusk from the crowded knees of the heavens

But not tonight

Take a deep breath and put that under your pillow

An empty desk, a toothless wind, gum in the hair.
The fervent stride of rocks crawling up onto the beach,
A small bird
Shares mass with the moon.

I tell you this by means of constellation,
You see, and you do not see, that’s the
Smell of it, the fire from a star in a spring tree.

And such are we that
With the importunity
Of joy.

The fullest dresser of commonest flowers,
The comb and the banter of the barber and the sea,
The itchy nose of calling roads.

And who are you to pause
Between vowel and consonant?

I gather the twigs and the legs
Of time.

I gather the sunlight reduced
To its particles.

The principal footsteps radical
With life.

I make a nest.
I buy a hang glider.

I bring home pulsars.
I borrow a sweater.

An ingenious ladder of stars
For an alphabet.

The odds are against me
This rainy walking spring afternoon.

Hi. Said orange pants.

Start by running. Then wait.

I pause like a stalk of celery.

I scream handshakes of troubled poems.

The crocuses are coming.

Poem like fingerprints
On the much used glass.

Poem in capital letters
Finishes its plate.

Poem. The twisted antlers of the sea.
Brought home a sandwich of lost sidewalks.

If I have said any truths
It was not in any poem.

Stripped
To its
Shell
Fragments
Of nebulas
Bathe
In the handsome
Breathing legs
Becoming.
I run
Split the earth.
I too am death
And so cannot
Die.
Stripped of ideas
The
Jawline
Of god
Pummels.
Beauty is time
Terrified.
I run.
Thunder for armpits.
The lipstick of brevity
For ashes.

I left it. At first I
Didn’t.

I have this instead. At first
I didn’t.

Before you know. At
First I didn’t.

Abstract sandwiches
Are baloney.

Maybe I left this
For somewhere else
To find.

Real sandwiches are
Like the shadow on a diving board

If you find me
Please return
But not to me.

The red
In my socks
Are damaged
Clouds.

Especially
The more
Ruined end
Of the couch.

Early March
Fills
the mouth
Of the sun
With the craters
Of being.

I spent all morning
With
A trilogy of daises,
The
Galaxy
In my ears.