Old With You
I wait for my wrist lines.
If I push them,
boxes make themselves.
I shorten your name
to a letter to make
populate my life.
Cursors in mud.
I turn on the weather.
ashes the books.
The house can live
underwater. The house
can wear its rooms out.
So what if the house.
The primitive is a process
more real, more hated.
Real book, the thoughts
in you are secondhand.
I work to my eye. Bird body
to my right.
Creaky-winged white pelican—change
my life, live fossil,
plaster mower with music.
A woman tells a pregnant woman
she dreams her stomach's
What the kid listens to in there.
Mother, don't worry about the missing
phone calls. You're worth more than
The singer said he hears the city
with no alarms or cars.
The song unreal
and true. Pigeons shit on anything.
One August, an hour out of the city,
the light lost it.
What was an electric
keyboard is a horn.
Give the power outage.
The plastic poem owns
This could be a photo of wood, black ink
scored across it. The cracks are real.
No, wood's plied into a shape.
Remove the paper.
Green spine meets black
face in a lifted ridge.
We've restored the original,
one-poem-per-page model. The original?
I face the wall. My back to the dead-bug
curtains and their tale of white.
I'm elsewhere. Sounds let up at the top
and fade. I have a radiator full of water.
It could be bad for my health, everything
with plugs, unidentified in the hedge.
Authentic stamps on the floor. I turn across
the bed. I need shelves, I need storage. I need
to stop who you are. In the fantasy
head, you always write. It happened that 1pm
passed and she signed her letters with one word,
then five words, then three words, then six.
Unroll your quarters-in-paper, poem
in a bad time. I'm in the wilds without
my feet. In the slick cedar swamp,
all is a primitive green. The lightless thicket
where even the air's hung up
and colored, the tree line sticks the clouds.