When it's too bright in the house
I switch on the dark
and wait for my thoughts to ripen.
I heat one microwave
inside another until both disappear.
I sell Wednesday for an extra morning.
I hire the weeds and fire the event.
Everyone is talking at once
about the following subject:
Latin for wig is wigus. Plural is wigi.
Thus, across the desertscape
wigi bloom yellow
the first time in decades.
Under green day-stars
our children play hide and seek.
All hide and none seek.
A drama about growing up, I suppose.
Their faces woven cleverly
into mesa stone, each looks around
in mute accusation.
The Bending, The Weighing
Forgive me if I repeat myself.
The lump on his back
is growing, despite the wicked
tennis. Despite the intervening thought.
Forgive me, despite the thought
and its ancillary and its tributary.
His car is an art object, diagonally,
in the middle of the room
despite the wax and tarpaulin,
while undergoing a minor surgery,
the square root of tree is nut,
we may endeavor to what's hidden,
forgive me for the intravenous thought,
but the square root of nut is tree
as monitored thru an hexagonal
tunnel, if I may be so bold,
under the wax and weft, and so forth,
in basement light, as if to repeat
myself, there would be no one
left to degrade the semiot.
What's in that lump? I can't stop
thinking about it, weighing his spine
the way a sphinx bends
its bough toward the ground,
under suspicion of frenzy, though
coldly steadying, the tremble, the tremble
of the door, as one must in order
to speak to him bend lower,
and so forth, to be at eye level,
until the entire room is bowing,
all talking about his car and its
diagonals, bowing to the artist
and to the art.
upon a time
a peasant crossed the night.
A night which lasted for three months.
The night carried the peasant on its back.
It carried the peasant in its mouth.
It slept while the peasant walked.
It climbed while the peasant slept.
The night was night inside a thought.
The peasant was thinking his way toward it.
The night was busy with arcs.
It revised the peasant's plan.
In every city are two cities at least.
In every night are two nights.
The night drew a line around the moat.
It set small fires in the hands of the wicked.
The peasant was immune and therefore indifferent.
The peasant was a heart tied in a bag.
It wasn't my jurisdiction to alert them.
I had to watch from the cold.
It wasn't my job to love them.
I had to measure the decibels.
This story is bound in frames.
Its intrigue involves the locks.
Night is a shared space and a private property.
No one can take this night from me.