The symphony of brows.

Must the dessert be last?

I remember reading a story about a Pacific island
Of people who lived almost entirely on
Coconuts.


Their sledges fell on gaping wood.

And girls looked like paused lips,
In hammocks.

And the sun shone even at night.

Sweat adulterated the workers,
all of whom sang,

"We must in, We must out,

Almighty, we must do both, for You,
And never stop."

The carbors.

The carbors left the meeting today,

But no one is sure when.  They just shulked off.


Everything sucks, and peals, as if left by a leaf of golden

Glass.

The hog will patiently ask when of the knife;
And peace, to the jacket

Of which unsaid eyes

Have asked nothing,
will rely.

One: look at me, now-- find help for clean up. The Other: Find the carbors.

The cherries.

You have never been invincible
But you hear them--

cherry blossoms, awake, in
Your sleep.

These are the last things
The Sun lets you see--

and it's not the way they are.

But you move, and everyone
Is moving,

Crowding the table by the valentines,
Spitting the first cherry pits
Into melting snow.

Happy, lips in duplicating bows, hands rose,
Spilling bowl upon bowl

Fetching a glint
When a dearest droplet
Is at hungry stake. You can't say goodnight,

But you want to say goodnight.

The Chinese Anthology of Poetry.

Your plum stomach squeals at a scratching branch
And it sucks at you.

Soon, the other carbuncle, the Moon:

Will be swimming with your grassy hair,

Dyed, and late for almost everything, too.

Jackass.

It doesn't broaden your accommodations that you have a tail;

The vestige can always be folded, and stored.

Safari plaintiffs will wait their turns
And our houses will be redone in cozy zebraid mattresses--

You see, compassion waits while looking at a lion,
And at a leech, somedays.

No one ever wrote a letter to a faraway wall--regardless of the
Stampede prints saying what it was--

Saying it was a plea's barricade from the branding light--

As though in being snorted at and
Shared specified commonality.

Signature.

With license the bridge can be passed,
And safety will ensue.

Meanwhile a cursive flock
Explains a miracle while

Helmets and straps fall--

And while no one is looking at them.

This lime tree bower my

I am not immobile,

So the world must conjure its own stale magic and stiff dirt:
It must spin without me--I won't wet it---

So that when I give credit
I can

Assure my ribs of
A Song

More profitable than a wind-purchased song.

What grace has been forced to encourage.

It takes a few hours of fisticuffs and moping
to change the disposition of a mirror--

But look!

Your gray bangs look different than when the faun
Brought you

To the Bus stop.

Hyena.

There is a sweet smoke that comes from being different from everyone.

And a lambent tickle.
Wary

Herders look at you longer than they would ever anyone, discussing fitful progress,

Or Satan in the presence of a lit match.

Mildew.

A curse upon the straws of any broom
That might sweep away the rye

From a stone.

Corruption.

One step on the branch and then down,
One step in the mud,

You're getting the corrugated picture of the way we eat.

I'm happy.

I see nothing but light.

If you're nearby, maybe, looking
At the same spot, and wondering

Why shadows don't register it's
Because

Sing Hosanna.

"AND they that preceded us and the others were singing Hosanna, a blessing to fortune, in the name of the Lord." -The Gospel of St. Mark 11:9

Some days,
I disfigure You by
Saying your name, as though
Saying the name of a woman who was near

Was no different.

But I remember You--powerfully, in the game smell (in a pile of shit.)

You know the way a stream blinks, and in blinking
Very nearly prevails upon its host at the fortune of sunlight;
You are nearly nothing to me.

Knitting.

In the cloth there lays a little lap;
No pattern--

No one telling it how to grow
Sleeves. (But everyone is close at hand

And in the park a sunset often slips into

Jokes.)

Privilege.

The only reason to
Encourage a beaver to chew down this
One tree is that it might differ
And fall headlong on a
Marble floor.

Jagganatha

May this last flower be exactly as I remember it--

Exactly as it is.

Cider.

The belly of an apple is
Green, and when fairness fails,
Pink.

You know, the tongue is dumb to language.

Her new name is June.

If it blooms let us encounter it.  And

May I never grow so strong a stomach as to take it in grace

When her shoulder is bare and
June prevails on the calendar.

The songs.

Experience can be conservatively divided
Into two lots:

The imaginative, and the
Songs

Uncles sing.

The world.

A cat addresses the world with neat, factual prints.

A shadow, too.

Precision--
It walks to dare,

Is a fine thing that must be smudged
To distinguish. The thing is thin

Collateralizing disbelief on a path
Of mystery.

Lunapark.

Between a girl's hand
And a marble table,

I found a cold shadow.

Where are the eyelashes? Where is the ferris wheel
In this place?

Lingua franca.

All the inches of a holiday are measured in shadows.

We eat in a way to which we are accustomed,
And we return, diaphanous,

To the language from which we momentarily paused
From speaking.

The breeze responds to me.

The breeze responds to me;

I must have been born corrupt;

Corrupt hair,
Corrupt privilege. But

I reach to fetch other contaminations.

All the whiles descend like brittle glass.

If you feel tired you should sleep.

All the whiles descend like brittle glass.

If you're gone too long the rows of medium
Will part.

Evil preserves the water abandoned by a
Shut eye.

What an apple must've been, before it was food.

When our words suddenly become functional in daily life, the horizon cuts the land from the sky.  And monsters teethe.

Paradise.

We share an unkempt barrack
Paid for with turnip
Ends and copper.

Winter apple.

It's morbid to lick things you don't intend to eat.

It shows you have looked at a part of
The world, listened,
Sensed,

And then displayed the ceremonious conviction
To wait.

Love.

What a foolish compass is laid
In the grass,

Where it might lie.

The Rape of Europa.

An oyster is wise to its own jewelry.
It opens once,

And once to one wealthy door knock.

The narrow hallway by the time clock.

I don't like to mope.

But plain walls bother me.

I am a lover of simple decorations.

And a fat shadow will suffice.

Growth.

The girl's cheek grows pretty with time.
Beauty is like a young linebacker--

With no residue at his feet
He piles shoulders with wear.

Campfire.

Above the ground
my toes have been with the grass.

I peeled the foil from an ashy potato and ate.  Meanwhile
The monarchy of stars

watched.

Sap.

A sap owes nothing
To a catcus,
Sitting beside me.

And a gulp, nothing,
To a grain of salt
Dissolved.

Landscape.

I love what I've always loved because what I've always loved is affordable.
I wore wet brown shoes to get to it

And I took them off when I got there.

The story I read
Concerns an astronaut who landed on a

Shoot-colored planet--he's nearly there.

I would never have known that he had a doubt about the world,
Any more than that in those Martian chemistries similar

Geraniums grew.

o.

If you thumb through the grassy
Things in the grow

o

Share them lest they be handily lost
To fingers-- or a snap of frost.

House.

The forest
Follows the pralines
Of the fox to the

Gull.

Just before sunrise, outside Carlisle.

When words failed him, he coughed--
But those plegm yellow sounds got the braille

From the lungs so the tongue could be read aloud.

He did what came natural, next:

Shot a white eye into the pond's air, and watched it
Over the stock divot, disappearing in flapping ink--

The indentations rose to places where they

Could recite their iliads in clouds.

(He thought if only his wings would touch the infinite watertips.)

The maple.

There are certain words that spook me to say them.
When I can convince them to come out

They arrive, smarter and tauter than I could imagine.

I say to myself,

ouch, I do not belong here in this old pill-colored palace.

And the heft and the pine in my voice summons the past.

A compliment.

Dance.  I'll remember you differently.

There is no platonic research, no rehearsal. Nor,

Can you come early, nor respond
afterward.

I have the flu,
I'm old

I was never right beside you.

Gloomily, I turn a weak faucet on my feet.
The suspense of my steps thrills me--

But I see them as they are, one as conspicuous
and unclear as the next.

I know which step follows the right after
so long--

And you,
Are so strange to everyone for whom

We dress and wish.

Infancy.

Wise things are coercive--
Blooming in fields lost to sons, bell-casters,

To battles.

The flowers on the blue curve are a sign of a season
Shortening, having colored

Now, already
Dull.

The pink inner thrills on those
studious fingers feast on the
Over-abundant sun.

Such a world of lies--just listening will
Stop your heart.

Last season a fat baby rose from his cradle,
The lava-folds of his tender back to the field,

Unfriendly to the hands that made him laugh.