describe it one more as time I bite blue from the night
potatoes planted in glass ground by mouth
broken pen in my eye. The flower she ran away with
and we laughed as the ceiling collapsed on us dreaming of lawsuits
after learning to teleport October wind the empty
like cuneiform but spiders massed in the corner
and woke. At the forest’s center parting branches
the usual longing to be a burnt map
which body part is the moon tonight
autumn skies just light my list lengthens like smoke
struggling back. In autumn light false starts
to be as many bodies as there are verbs in the stars
a day in summer like the rest you never take
teeth of ferns still whispering lies about the Cretaceous
she turns away from me a floor above the moon
a motorcycle as it starts to consider a question
morning escapes through newly empty air acorns
the sun silently deifying crumbs on the table
scent of ripe apples when I would practice how to fly
that happy laughter in the distance always thin trees
uneven rocks in mist stay quiet about destiny
as you donate blood in Connecticut a small soft yacht to squeeze
late summer the president returns a mountain to its people
in your town the story sold in slivers coated with hard plastic
so small it lives off the clicks of insect legs
Friday the breeze you worked so hard for asks for a separation
but the silence was once my home dear stars
the mourning doves already forgot my first dream
green sun on the grey stone of a crumbling week
clouds cling to the mountain stories you try to forget
who’s to say what about this sickness highway sounds distant
burnt candy. A fist in the forest crawls under a rock
after the poem of rain the prose of mushrooms
cabin fever a stack of unread books like Babel
crocodiles in distant vinegar single digits tonight
sinks under the waves to point out the ruined temple
my skin stretches to meet itself over the ice caps
a tasting menu of leaf types for your caterpillar parts
like Uber for your grave on the moon
in leaves before the storm the sound of the storm
no gratitude today for worms that make my breakfast
sunrise a generation of fruit flies
shadows in the carpet little skulls of summer
after talk of labyrinths longing to see the ocean
warm breeze squirrels exchange mulberry trees
the sudden song. A beauty that—but the road in need of repair
and woke to the hiss of rain on the unfinished tomb
back from vacation my shoes too small
those days of astral travel now just a skull in the bin
a seed forces itself into the archaic organ overnight
sand poured in the lungs. Though the auditorium was immaculate
the pen twice as old as me smells of blood
the button we never pressed fish under ice
enough oil to finish the chapter or fry a miniature fish
light across the water claims no pills stick in that throat
other animals 