Peals and
green sheep, their muzzles
smelling
like perfect acorns
all caught
in the gel air like
thirds in
Bach. Is it pleasure
that keeps
a city together?
I’m
reading through pages of
old
fortunes, validity
is
subjective as our words
for
weather. My chaise lounge won’t
fit
through our new door, newspapers
will but
they’d rather pile against
one
another like round faces.
When I saw
how awesome your
picture of
Bermuda grass
was I knew
we were moths,
exclamation-ready,
and
that we’d
need to come up with
another
sign for waiting.
On the
street, including bluebirds
my other
pleasures defer. Overheard
boys
describe new boyfriends to
one
another. Adjectives
like to be
grounded somehow,
like power
lifters. The verb
feels
better to me today,
grammar
like a mobile made
of it or
one made of walking.
A linked
set of arms requires
two people
and what does collage
require?
Two sitting calmly.
Blank
means everything. Plural
likenesses,
some rain which passes
wherever
early afternoon
crosses
the meadow. The heightening
effect of travel, its scalene
uncertainty. Again into
verticality I begin
to unearth my show, private
and strong as a spine.
If I were wearing the sky like a bathing suit
this lip like the pink lip of a shell is glossy
as.
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