A girl on a street.
The wind rolling her faster.
Each foot stops a fall.
Never a second wind twice.
A girl before the bear.
The bear rises, and falls.
A plastic bag in the snow.
Skid marks hold it faster.
The girl’s skin as it is skinned.
The bear’s head in a bag.
A shopping bag on a street.
A sail on the subject of change.
A squirrel skids off the mark.
A full bag fills with wind.
Downhill the street rolls.
A wind rolling it faster.
Who licked a spoon and put it back?
Consider the sun
erupting and angry at its core.
A summer tanager. A red dust. Unplugged
like river slantingly
as if the water will drain,
but bushes, like pubic hair hold up every drop.
Canadian thistles erupt
in the American lawn
all year long, sweetie,
sweetie, the chickadees, like a wall
facing an exit door. Your life
One Andromeda galaxy red
backed. Put in plagues and war —
ways to reduce
our white pages. To empty the human.
Are notes not
Every erection is diffident. What sings
goes out with the tide.
the unbearable bearably
tomb like for things we forget.
What? One salamander
put back in the canoe
with one paddle downstream
navigates a licking waters. How the fishes
acknowledged by bubbles
are bubbling —
On Notes on Wall
Numerous sheets of paper on the wall.
Numerous white papers.
Numerous papers each a visual closed door.
The story is not there. The story is
not a paper. In between
things, the story, an act
The wall is brown with carpenter stain.
The wall is brown with years.
The wall presses numerous closed doors.
The story is
another form of time,
a second time dimension
connected like a note
to the first. The story is
not a wall. The story is between
an anima and an other. The story
is a state. A war.
Each paper keeps a scribbled name.
Each square signed its name in ink.
Names voiceless in white vacuum.
The story is
not a word. The story is not
a dimension with lines. Between
a paper curd and an
other. Curd, curd. The river
and the tongue. Subway hole
and root. Paper, paper,
In the distance a tractor
and its rider. The sky, hard and sanctioned,
piled in particles of grain.
A contraption behind the tractor
spreads seeds into open trenches,
opened and soaked.
The American landscape. Corn,
pigs and sweetened. It responds
to us. Pet corn,
glyphosated, yellow off the pot —
its teeth with our teeth.
We dump the emptied cobs.
A growing hump of cobs
dusts a landscape. Its color — fuel,
its smell — distended.
with its sisters in a drying pile —
we lie with it.
Corn teeth in our gut
calling all gut bacteria. Give us
your breath. While we lie.
We climb to the top and kick. Lucy
spreads her toes. Then, we bury Hugh Grant.
Up his neck, a deep laugh. Grant
amplified active ingredients
dusts our hands and knees.
An amplified time to be in agriculture, I say.
The corn hump damps the voice. You can
take this stance when you’re standing
at the top of the pile.
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