Birth, our briefest talent, has come to switch the wrong bodies. Keep the world like a fish that hasn't surprised a bird. I have little, I have only. My secret death and its unled lord.
eyesight in the dream is a small cloth on a decent doll but the dress code isn't clear
country 1 Death is the only absence that absence honors. Not seeing creatures up close is home country 2 No one prayed here nor left here to pray. Hurry, math. The small gods they lower the footprint country 3 Blue from making thin air, we could almost see the snowball in your mother's stomach country 4 A tooth taken by a tooth. The night on one knee. A child as friendless as a wrist ~~~~~ ( response poems for Benjamin Niespodziany i. My sibling's white noise machine reminds angels that they've no young. There are three light switches per rooster. They are The overlooked church of the eel Frog's empty life God sees an image that's been moved by me ii. Everything being done is done outside of a horse Your mother's hearing loss keeps my voice from changing Lightning dreams itself into a cat thrown from a moving car A lit match enters a flashlight iii. dear Ohio the ocean is worried about a trapdoor also about the ocean I want you to think about the number of limbs remembered by a bitemark and then our little satan using the same bowl for his food that he does for his water iv. Body language being kept alive in a ghost town. Wind's missing child can't get sick. v. Loss sees its mother in its mother. Not all of us die. - In hell, one forgets hell's naked birds - Empty says it has a twin. Far says nothing.
After one death, there is another. Poetry is dead all the time. Is the orphan of our notified life. Rooted wildness, outlandish conformity. When my grandmother passed away, was poetry gave a future to any moment failed by my presence. When my youngest son was diagnosed with a rare progressive disorder of the muscles and the brain, was poetry offered its amnesia as the combination to its blank safe. Some would say our empty protest of verse lands us on the steps of nothing. Why, then, these steps? You can’t catch a fish with the shadow of a bird. But you tried, right? You tried in that poem your friend wrote, the one where a stone ate a star. And is maybe still eating. When my grandfather, my aunt, my father-in-law, my grandfather...ah. Hell if I know. A trace of deletion. An afterparty for the advertisers of illness. I used to smoke so I could stand over a thing that didn't have a ghost. If people knew about my teeth, I don't think they'd read my poems. Like you, I was tricked into being beautiful. There are line breaks in my prayer for scansion. I am saying this is holy. I am saying this is common. How many hearts does god have? Of how many does she lose track? I am poor from being poor and poetry is still dead. Unforgive me. partially before HERE
poverty a handprint starts in the shoulder of a ghost - I could not kill not after seeing the ice-covered red dog by the barn - not magic we call it god the waiting that god does
country 4 A tooth taken by a tooth. The night on one knee. A child as friendless as a wrist
raindrop in bathwater, the desperate brain of a groundhog, the moth corrections, the actual age of your weapon when left on a bus, is touch nowhere's oldest witness, magic - or poverty
country 3 Blue from making thin air, we could almost see the snowball in your mother's stomach
country 2 No one prayed here nor left here to pray. Hurry, math. The small gods they lower the footprint
kingsoftrain 