A Long Way From All Comes One

chance is the mother of the poets
the grass is a solifidian dance
fish are movie cameras behind black
windows of supine elegance
my heart is beating from inside the glass
of water blue in smoke-filtered sunlight
I am not furloughed not thinking like
stems or bones there is a stalk of celery
that is all I have of heavenly sound
to measure the limbs of my hand
I can only guess which shelter
makes me tired after and after some
times I can feel the wrinkled bark
of the dogs meaning on the horizon
tomorrow has been purplish all the day
to know that petals fall like lucifer
disappear into the innocent approached
abstract as the hooker in outer space
and some door opening for me
I enter as a bridge from the silent
every utensil on every table
longing for iridescence because redolence
like an often scarred buttocks
is philosophical and dazed at length
or a photo I want only one face
the forgotten face that can never
ever be seen even if the sky is laminated
with come or grass or gills
any memory of lean tender meat
sound of a leaf scratching the sternum
to want all the world’s mail
in a backpack in a matchbox car
the black trees sending up their filaments
jack is not looking to score
only to sell his cash for some seeds The Situation of Gnats as Sparks of Something
hives and the pavement and under summer porches
to lie down on the sidewalk and feign death
mosquitoes
the nuances of any given cuticle
to pray the dead will not die that I am breathing in
my ancestors in the kitchen still
singing in the dog’s mouth a tennis ball
the carnation in the garbage
I don’t know what to do with my hands
in the shower of waiting the forests of northern
africa
the body drinks the water of the city
left on the night stand next to the false teeth
for joy I moan and walk away
who must receive my order by december first
to ensure delivery
draw me a circle please and leave some heart within it
chronologically
a sponge drying on the window sill
I open to an empty room
dream of lipstick on the sky and crawl into bed
at dawn I am the one who is finished
and there is a nervousness about
I at least have this poem