summers
pass, difficult
to hear, since sound waves slow
through sweet actuals, through
the tangible trees. summers come
slowly,
come soon:
hear those there-flowers opening
on extended days; smell
the qualia
grass grow
two kids live on their bikes
one is standing, pedaling
dead leaves tumble clumsy
across the black pavement
it is not halloween
or anything
each different night
has its name, a shade
of black for its nature
for people have names
of sound, but for nights
it’s different
snugged up in our oo
my skin gets cold creeps
when i’m thrilled, then
you read the braille
on my armbacks
with your fingerprints
just as good as an aurora
is an ouroboros inside
an amethyst terrarium
(inside an alaskan zoo
(inside the middle
of january))
Real-real
Not just real – real
That feels crisp and crystal
Also antarctic because this
Real’s bright
the seraphim
standing sentinel
at the chain-link fence
round the jungle of eden
are not vegetarians
just picture god’s
mouth water when
she thought of sizzling
lamb fat at the altar
remember that angel of death?
probably certain people
have hearts lighter
than god’s – well – no
i guess god has the power
of self-absolution, tricky tricky
if anything in heaven
if one single thing has
a mouth, just knock me
out, i’d rather sleep through
eternity than listen to more chewing
a powdery crescent daymoon rises
in the north, and the sky is fragile, and
cold, and quiet of birds – snow melts
into the dirt with a sound like vinyl
sizzling under the needle and footsteps
beat like muffled mallets over the deerskin
head of the ground in no particular
rhythm, in no particular hurry
an insistent vacuum-black moon rises
to dot out the sun, and the sky is fragile, and
cooler, and the night frogs begin their
confused choruses unconfidently, if we
can say anything as complicated of the frog,
while the locusts call to one another
dispassionately, automatically, and unafraid
and i am indoors, asleep, like some dumb bird
if i am conscious
then there must be something
it is like to be me, like
being you, for instance
at night, when the whales
all stand up sleeping,
the stars seem to hint
of other seasons, other autumns
if i am conscious
then there must be something
it is like to be me, but there is
only one thing it is like
my grandmother died once –
the doctors shocked her alive,
and when i asked what she saw
while dead, she mumbled, “nothing”
if i am conscious
then there must be something
it is like to be me – i can’t find
the right – you know what i mean
a sleeping whale died once
under the stars and no doctor tried –
but whales have zero to me to me
to me to me to me to me to me to
new moon
rests heavy in
a crushed velvet sunset:
royal purple. the bats roll out
to dusk
the trees’
fingertips dance
like dark green spanish skirts,
like a ripple of millipede
legs: breeze
Time stood
Trembling: little
Insomniac, thunder
Ing eyes still slumbering like tithes
On a
Seatide
Sand coins scattering – stressed out of
The pockets of Triton
Astoundments: nine
Thousand
autumn
icaruses
littering the groundscape
yucca crowns adorned with feathers
drying
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