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
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
Proportion
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
