You are running down a hill.
Try to have fun.
in little minutes,
in the dark.
Daylight climbs a chair
the dog's face
in the brickwork.
in the window,
The undertow is warm.
It is already a loop,
glassy cosmos, tiny
you have inhaled.
To The Other Person I Am Right Before I Fall Asleep
Yet it's close. It feels like a new suit or sheet.
You are good to everyone and you don't care.
Knowing pillows of smoke and a yawn's opulence.
I am happy for you. I wish you would go away.
And recognize your dad, that tiny figure raking leaves.
And hear me out. And hear me out. Listen.
The Things in This Poem
Empty microwave, old old old universe shaped like a saddle,
me driving asleep away from him in the morning, black pixels,
luxury condoms, a drawer of pink patterned cloth I care for,
One giant crest of an infrared wave, simulated milk, yellow eye snagged in a tree,
a mass of wax and the thing entombed inside. I won’t grow badnesses.
Maybe a seed in foam, for wind. Speaking is not good at anything.
Pure neon. Thick and dumb devotion, white as electrons. No downside to space.
A wooden knife made wrong. The mink black part of the ocean.
Wet eggs. Leftover affection.
Listen, my brain seems to want me missing. Arms to wrists to tips.
And the saddle forms and reforms. The mass of wax turns to the
wooden knife, and the mink black part of the ocean turns to me.
A thin paper is pushed towards you across a table and its forward corner
rears up and curves back onto the hand. When you hear objects they will
only be chanting. A ratty wig is true to you in the dark, that's union, you
can't object. A window's spell is neutral, fair. Outside it is March, and
you are healthy and carrying a small white bag that is leaking something good.