Slowly Revealed Clock Shape Circling
the cooled domestic floor
anterior to the body of
other boldly or in
another touch-recovery project
someone good enough for that
one torn opportune morning
told memory’s odd
chromosomes offered otherwise
overwrought stories
slough of commodities
taken home no one told
of simple overglow
without postponement the
obbligato of one’s
effort since one might topple this
swooning pornographic
soon-to-be posthumous
in its last full song or merely toad it
rolls its old ode to the long stone
short frontier circled late
swooning and holed up
outside its own
at rooster crow
in cold memory again
Several Islands Have Appeared and Swimming Is Possible
let’s say my sisters
hello and goodbye
but sometimes
we just waited
every direction at once
and the moment had
a gang of them
and it knew something
but it didn’t
admit I wanted to
and I didn’t want it to leave me
stood by the river and waved
it was all the same
it dropped its leaves and
sometimes it pointed
without going
only its way with me
made up one
I didn’t
understand each other I
know them
alone
domestic geese nervous about the sunshine after so much gray shake it off like the dust of an old attic while the turtles shuffle onto the bobbing driftwood climbing over each other to let light dry them their little bundled piles of white turd drying to paper and dreaming wondering what they can’t remember
after something inside
the distance was greater than
the breadcrumb trail
picked up and
happy with himself
had gone out
before
my thoughts had been
swallowed by a crow
and the unexpected way the world provides
Shaking Hands with Children
still there’s no excuse
tall and tall again
silly
already there’s pale smoke
from the limbs of
fuzzy white pimples
there’s exuberance careening
the children are singing:
it fits under the door
what do you think of that
hand’s opposing whale
between longer thinner
fish that can’t live that way
like the children’s nose game
extending his flesh
prongs
at the most promiscuous airports
magical sawed
no longer themselves
fat enough as
their beanstalks breach
clouds of hope
blossoming
the cherry tree
popping each day open
like a reckless polka
The light loves the floor
but the dark is fat
and here’s the adult
breaching
less cuticled
there between and poking out
there’s a father
shovel’s flexible sensitivity
there are parents
remembering
children half waking
and touching