A power line on which birds sit
Its claws, unfettered in a row of nothings

At times I wish they spoke
A Whitman in drag for a grass that moves

Why not, why not an endless variation
Overgrown, like smoke tangled under soil

Waiting for the wind to catch
Waiting for a nerve ticking thought

Waiting, under his feet for reentry
His sandals open with fissures

In the ground, in this muted metaphor
Announcing gravity, my scattered mind


Open mouthed, too rhetorical
Too sublime, interrupted

Trumpets without tongues
As psychiatrist nod their heads

They couldn’t help themselves
I was unresolved, my very own flesh

Had nothing more to steal
I had put off from wearing red

I was part surgeon, part cosmic
The sort of things that half conceived me

Mushy words that run naked especially at night


I feel a little superior
Raised above a circle
Where blinded lions place their grief

A masterpiece to the end
A luxurious wailing, sequel’d enough
Tyrant enough, inheriting a death

Of falsehoods, a heavy heart composure
My only audience is I – against age
My very own pity, the tragedy of this write

Fooled by reflex – it’s late he says
Brief rules of mercy, damp against his hands
Eloquent as my uncomplaining flank


Perspective is reduced
It is the name I love
Unknown obtuse love

Texturing a second for each pulse
Beyond the give the take
Only casually though

I am indeed afraid
Contented not to move
Considering our past

And the curve of your white neck
Permanent in a dune, chronic like
Not by route, but by touch, nowhere

I am indeed just me
I stay, exchanging weight for weight
Changing the sheets on my bed

Promising myself this too shall pass
Closing my fist to tight, calling it a tale
Someone who requires blood-letting

Served like no other when you think of me