Rigamarole and deaf old man as the world.

Everyone in range

of my singing when I was young,

those who saw me
stooping to touch the pavement

as if it were possibly running
a fever,

hello
again.



Perhaps
the tilt of the earth

makes all my flowers
left-handed?

Perhaps.



As a boy,
Gregor

sat in his backyard,
snapping twigs

and making delicate piles
that he would usher black ants into,

then set  on fire
with a kitchen match.

Poor

Gregor

would make me

watch.



My God,

the veins
on the back of my hands

throw shadows!

Urals!
My blood

knows!



Green and red
maples

harbor the low roofs,
brush the chimneys

shyly
as if they were me.

I them?
W/e.


I think about wars
as pouts of fire

around the compass
rose,

one thing
at least

that we can agree on.



to breathe.
to distend the molecule.

first light:
equal measures

doom &
color.



my name:
the deed

for a dry
portion of land.

the certainty
of fire.

all that dances,
promises.



the bone i broke,
the missing hatchlings

from the nest outside
my window.



The trees are as wordless
as the inside of a kiln

the day after it was
last fired.

Rain-glazed.
Holding unseen-ness.

My initials,
perhaps somewhere.



I was talking for a full
half hour,

passionate and hot
as a bare bulb.

Hey?

The old man

is funning
me.

He has to be.