POETRY
the meaningless
I wish our heads, the stereos, could be truly neglected
by the extremes of white, ever and always
the therapy applies to its listeners, and undoes boundaries
and the mind steps out over these snails
and it extends, by all to be fantasy
saying, I am willing to have existed
or I am crazy and the hills are not, though silence
amounts to their essence when asked
but then ever, a field, the embrace
and we ride from here to something perfect and knowable
as the only pirate left is the exact sight who denies by detail
and no one pirate song a mouse escape his grave
one gesture so correct, but amass at that
into the strings of the past, an absolution
as a bridge that goes from shore to everyone
and I am of this world, not part of the Emmys
would we hope then the wraith establishes something
as I stood on the platform of that spaceship, I knew
I find myself in making things new, wilder crows
I thing the sea to its shore, snails to quails
and we exist out among shores, in the layer of riddles
unstill in the spoken room, in the sky barn
realize the grace of motion, swelling
only we can tell what happens here, by our solubility
to discern which of the halves of the world is empty
the ship or the sky, the hairy alien or that he exists
but knowing the rain extends after the cloth of the umbrella
and the joys are not sermons but petite fires
and your arms, drag them through, they have an extension
birds on the brim of your hat, we expect and then we know
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