To walk with, on a feeling road
yours if handled well and I
nearly drove across without looking,
where was I off to? I don’t speak
to you well, or myself if you
are close again on my sheet
of foil and burning to pupate
I borrow some wind and blow you out.

Now nearly driven good things
warrant me sane, once more,
off to consume the numbers dumb
until threads of me grow again
from where I walked and where people play
their numbers quickly else they fade
into moss growing from the looking shade.
All too humble to undress and lay.

Gun to tomorrow the monster of quiet doesn’t say.
Nor does he play with things inside of others
long lost, longer lost than criminals to pussy.
He instead stutters, he stutters,
can’t paint but traces others with what but his hands
locked together long lost in their interiors.
As well with his head. His head stretches
two rivers through steel and slavery,
and wets the foot of anyone alive or not yet
blind with glaucoma, coupling, and itself.

In the pretty light
where grimaces all the world.
I, the knuckles left from blown
apart families wonder:
who reaps, who throws up
when eyes don’t open well enough?

Those are features common on
things and common people and landscapes
either beaten in or rounded
into glass for drinking and ribbed
wherein the body wept for lack of eating
through its own purchases, through companionate
others too lost, like us, farther from us around
than a baby sleeping in the ground.

I’ve found out one thought will inescapably lead me by my lily white hands to turmoil.

Wrists eat up sugar
& turn vulgar shaking on
things like gin and liquor
costing not enough
to make a teacher run and chuff
up their learning and learning
things bitter as thought
I turn the other cheek and sit
chewing up my hands like a molding writ.

Couldn’t see the man or mirror
well with child; too much a drunk
winding down muscular slunk
through highness and highness but well methunk.

Couldn’t see what I was doing
well with child; then without,
an idiot whose uterus invented clouds
who poured into Earth the first shod house.

People in a good thaw
toss the gardens in their sleep.
They smoke the noon and draw
things not yet rotten to keep
far from beds turncoat
or on the sill falling out
like people in thaw down slopes
too truant in their soylent house.
Men upon animals burn the route
to others eating others’ hopes.

Says up her nothing
good violence won’t dissolve
unless cripple one Sunday
and buried atop where sunshine
rolls about unfettered or rude
saying in circles women
never think if they cough nude.
Then more nothing bold and shy
in the way of what speaks
at people behind to mirrors
speaking old things wrong
when held up to the light—
sad never ended up right.

Looking up her skirt snowfall
comes quick and quicker still
short men ravish up like elves
crawling then walking
as they learn and nod,
preaching harlotry to the south
around here where people
copulate and pray in the same mouth.

When blackfaced I burn up
to drink sometimes and other times
windows look too large
at me undressing,
or dressing up hours before
the dark outside coughs
then steps on its smokes and peers
to me asking for its head
too long left on my house
moaning alcoholically for noon.