if puddles
passed on
DNA
reflections of
elbows
and the biceps
of stars
if puddles had a hairline
to matter about (and they do)
would they grow old
to stir the square
add asides
a pompadour on a rhombus
a quiet
that sold its hands for yearbook promises
a stubborn blue
with numerous white birds
for walking shoes
in the dust of lyrics
lost gravity
in billboard boots
in the rubble of stars
a nosebleed
grip
on god
i cohort
i sabotage
i gleam
desperate
shelves
for eyes
a sweaty globe
for a conscience
because pieces of sky in
puddles
are barefoot fires
here come daffodils
stiff as black eyes
the drunk brains of the sun
surmising a grinning nowhere
in a garden of grinning fire
here comes the moonlight
turned upwards like surgery
feasting on the petals of the sea
somehow some of our follies
will catch safe landing
and we will be sad for that
The sun sits
Barefoot in the April snow,
Picks up flames and learns the geometry
Of turn and spiral, heliotrope and new wing,
Wears the highway for perfume.
The sun is no bigger -I swear-
Than your bare feet in the April snow.
naïve haircuts 