Small alleys, good spots for parking the mongoose.
Tired I am of forgetting ideas. The remains of lost.
No lost- and- found bin of the mind.
Nature of the smoke inside the smoke.
The identity of the spike to the spur
can be said to be equivalent to the roar’s echo
inside the head of a roarer.
In the case of serpentine numerals, the causes were unknown.
Where she was, in terms of roaring: lioness-tique,
though moustique means mosquito in French. Mystique,
a glowworm on a thorn.
After Reading Stephen Hawking and Arthur Sze at the Same Moment in Space
You are floating. The garden inside you is floating.
I was about to read but heard a noise upstairs.
It was a ghost sucking on the head of my son,
half awake as usual and keeping his troubles to himself.
I lit the fire and told the ghost to get on out
or I would impale its withering soul onto a hypothalamus
and leave it for vultures.
The ghosts that come to my home are generally in the shape
of skimpy prom dresses.
I am scared for a second then go about my day.
It is fine to mess with me but picking on my 5 year old
goes against the code.
A person throwing ice cubes at a college.
A Laura Linney look-alike eases through typewriter store.
Having nose trouble again, in public, the man
with the bowl of lentil soup.
Skins on which saucy notes are stuck.
Noise of industrial mowers.
The ironing boards dripping oil.
Children’s knees. Well-rubbed sheets, leg oil streaked;
Cabinetry of flies, saxophone utensils. Creeping out
the insulated pads. No climbing in there.
Stains from the blood of gored parking lot attendants.
Girls walking into chairs and giving up their knees.
The ironing boards, moan-packed.
Crashes of shirts.
Infinities of boards. Whole tomb-fulls.