Eating the zoo.

It's always so smoky where I live
Nothing seems to want to fly in by...

One morning, I saw a truck, and some guys binding and gutting a  deer.

And the generosity of sharing--no
One was doing that.

They were, like,

Eat if you have.  Enjoy if you can.

Love follows the trickle of love.
The dearth fits neatly in its own shadow.

If I wave away the fumes, with my hand, the smoke will unfold in its place--
A cleansed revision of the flawed first draft.

It's like a record of everything I anticipate for myself.

You--orange,

Tell me your name again.

Homesickness.

I can see their ears pushing through the hair, as they sit near the sea, standing upright--
It's a plump
Scouring sound they hear on the waves,
Not in their own language.

Why is everyone else so heartbroken,
As if left out of a definitive
Confusion?

Dream.

The darling mist
Can be traced back to this.

Of course, I was young, once.  And I had an answer for everything.

untitled poem.

Every time I fall asleep someone picks me up.

How does this happen?
I mean, I look to each place--each, as I nodded off, and I let it know,
You are beautiful.

And each disappeared.

I was swimming in a neighborhood pool.
The shadow of the ladder scowled on the green wall.

When I woke up I was on a marble baker's slab, and
Someone picked me up, coughing up flour, on a soft mattress.  I had no idea where I was.

It meant nothing.

People seem to think I just make things up.
But I remember everything.

The pink veneer on the steel opposite this glass partition
Is exactly like one in a dream

(I woke up, and something carried me.)

Our River of Time.

I don't necessarily agree that words should last through the ages--
Not because they're not meaningful,
Not because they are falsely representative of
Things

Threatened by extinction.

Words deserve to be rare.
And they should even die.

I think it is practical that when a young person needs a word,
Say,

Meadow or cupola

He should have to borrow it from another universe.

This language we speak should be seen as a river
Bending out of sight.

The very course of things seems to say,
I don't know where I am going.

I don't know where I'm taking you.

He should, at a sound, and when asked, say the two words
Edvard Grieg
As if he had never been born.

Oh,

The moon is weeping ice cream into the ocean.

And the vanilla light stains so rebellious and bright.

The dark is subject to mismanagement. Oh,

The light smacks, and nothing can be punished for anything.

And a beheaded rooster is ready sing.