my original air
after the storm
whose crow becomes
a small episode

coaxing my composure
and my insomnia
my nowhere sapphire
my rococo legend

rain, stone, cement
blonde on blonde
sky without formality
with morning brilliant

my ferneries and
thickets, my cover
is my silence
anything like yours

punching morning’s machines
hiding in letters
depending dust, wasting
too many problems

an action of
the state, anxious
disorder of air
the escape nevertheless

immersed as a
kind of solitude
dangles its allure
where, ever thankful

afternoons begin chantwise
cry first grit
and how sound
changes the heart’s

music equal to
nothing calling river
abundance equips fabric
this outside broken

as evening practices
its street repertoire
night blurs lines
against my gates

electric dark extending
footsteps among secret
bones, voices spar
reverie loops float

dreaming I am
foam damps tomorrow’s
wavelets, syllables dissolving
and revealing rocks

my fecund terraces
as openings stretch
from long voice
onto own shadows

the shifting ground
in the body
that brought no
conclusions with me

I am growing
into my hands


Big Fun

I died for fun
under the mask of the fair.
My hand still holds its line.
That’s the joke!
My dress in fullness cries down.

Who will quarrel over it?
The square eyes, machine jaws.

Fireworks line the eastern sky.
Even more ferocious
the bitter south sea
the blasted sandhills, the end
of a million year fête.

Who will quarrel over it?
Whose machines, whose eyes?

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