Someone Says the Black Things
Alarmed by the wonder
of guests never invited, I’m up late
with the crumple
and space of what a stranger said.
Leave me to it. The rant
in my inbox is many
masquerading as failures. How can I
thousand the deviance? Outside
a tempest, a second
or third cursive night in a row. Before
and after. If I weren’t bewildered
I would write an answer
to mirror my signature, but
I don’t any longer
want to tell my true things
with two fingers, to work the wind out
of its stiffness. Still, I’m spilling forth.
To escape into drooping is to flare the night shelled
on that cotton sheeting. The salty room ends
in the flange, and residue crams
with repeated days of thorn. In the middle hatch of hoarded hours, the scrapes
again! Now, again
with a sharp tang
in the tone of head
where I hold my sorrow. My avalanche
of blades, what widened graves.
As if to reduce the ear, the skin sapped
of its frenzy, he rubs my back in left-fanned circles, dangling small homes
with long boats on the handle
of this tarnished time. Despite hauling up
fatigue, I arrive to these proximities, the blank
and halved, taking what I’m owed.
God of the Clustered Night
Juniper berries are little prayers
or small ghosts
or blue sacks
like dust in our throats.
Under the house with no roof
in numb light.
Where bones chafe against dirt
others walk on fire
in circles of knowledge.
People crowd in with dissonant blankets
in the posture
of each other’s heartbeat.
mixes with mercury
Desert clouds plump
all the pleasure for hours.
We avoid the cemetery
or go toward
its fragments of fossils
and wings strewn toward dark.
Let more coyotes walk us in—
guard the last disappointment.