On the Occasion of the End of the World
My plans are destroyed,
but I could still steal
the toys you've got left. No,
kiss me, please, and I'll stroke
your hair. I'm the failure.
I made you.
Here's the last moment.
I could play
the bronze horn, the goosethroat,
the glasswater tune
to shatter a rabbit hole,
wither a cover of leaves.
Or, I could tuck you in
and tell you a new adventure.
The sun, as a child, scuffed its feet
and scorched the bullies' gardens, so I
tied a hook to its head
and hung it decorously.
But not you.
I would have taught you
to heat the earth, to shepherd
flocks of starlings
like dark cloth you shook in the wind.
Let's pretend it isn't coming.
Pretend you're not cold, please.
I meant to make you better. I meant
to make you last.
Do Not Intentionally Cut Stone or Steel
Your motions cocoon you, so you
go through them.
You try violence
into a circuit—a drop of water
down a horn—and out.
A hummingbird will nose
a dead branch for nectar and, typically, a boy
will lunge—the bird
too quick. In anger
he'll strike, and you'll deflect his attack—
you brought it—downstream spinning
harmless away. He doesn't choose,
but neither do you,
weather and hands and teeth
and your teeth—tame, aggressive, clean—
Settle into the earth and spread out
thin in every direction, your eyes closed
till birds shout carelessly in your ears
and you forget your ears,
and rabbits and deer and automobiles
walk on the dirt your body
which feeds the tree which becomes the stone
to mark you
crumbling. If you concentrate,
a button and a hair disintegrate so softly
you never knew they belonged to you
and never will again.
From You at Free
You gets up too early, unable to withstand the sun in bed. You cats your back and jogs a bit in place. The dust notices, wind-drifts, and settles to wait for the next ride. Too tired to linger, you settles too into driving pace, creosote floating below.
Small dirt snowing in sun. A wing flick can pick you up, you candor you kaleidoscope. You owns every freedom but choice of where to land.
You disables the clock and drives through the night. The moonset, the blink yellow line. A rabbit slips under the tires, then nothing. The same line. You counts you doesn't know what the straight flat forever, you dot on a nothing you nothing.
In the end the Toyota saves you, overheating uphill. You pulls aside and swears you'll keep your vigil, but before dawn finds you sleeps.
You always peels at least two wrappers from your food. At this stage, vegetables are memories. You finds them in pictures but never incarnate. Once when this happened you spit fire ribbons fire eyes, which surprised you. You had so little bite before.
The dragon flies up a tumbleweed highway, shedding scales on false Toyota wind. The scales land forth in desert dirt and bloom at night to feed you.
You smells javelina. Dust. A plant waves back and forth against your cheek, but it doesn't have spines. An earthquake rumbles so subtly below you, you wouldn't feel it if you weren't lying down.
Your pupils horizon, and you follows. You furrows, what smoke fuzzes your mind.
Palms blot the horizon, fixed but bending, their fan heads regal threatening. Still. In your mind, sigh, rise among them,
forever moving from here to here. You home you mountain you passerine.