I don't know how to tell you that god comes back for everything but the mouth or that sleep was the last breathing machine to break our first.
Meaning
loses word.
Buzz rootless in the child's bee.
*
After all, I did not tell you that my son's body is a cloud, his pain
the duster
of his bones, his loneliness
that of a parent
with children
*
In the doll's only dream, the child cuts god underwater
I wasn't ugly
but you didn't
see me
Return gives its hair to absence
An elevator is lost
by an angel
*
A pup expires with a yip in a ransacked store. You say we are behind the snowy tv screen we made into a blanket for a dying robot. You can have me from the waist up. In Ohio I am not a girl chewing the corner of a baseball card but I am her brother researching the toy exile of lightning storms. Our domestic inquiries include the sex of the first person in hell, the number of animals giving birth in the field that burned emptiness, and if Adam was Eve's great lie. The more I think of time travel, the more it can do.
*
memory scares itself
twice
or once
you've a way
with squirrels
and pain
*
A train named after another train
changes fields.
Mirrors forget
that god
can't move.
*
God slips in and out of the bomb before it lands
Snow and rain
meet once
Not yet
*
A moon-owned payphone
The leaf of my pain
A pharmacy
trying to move
a tornado
Bad lighting, cigarettes, grass
It's not
personal
*
You are a certain way
and look
for love
Cricket
learns of sleep
Jesus wanting there to be a god
*
I can't tell if my stories start in the middle or if they're just without a beginning. The last time I heard my grandmother sing, I was at rest in a boy pretending to sleep. Footprint, footstep. The hands love both.
*
the crawling, the baby, what if it was never me, what if it was my memory of being near the thing that's coming, and my kids can't sleep
if a paint can
is open
and you only talk to me when I'm dying
*
In the dream that my brother calls his haircut dream, I have a tail I'm not allowed to touch. I tell him no haircut has ever taken this long. I tell him that god wanted more kids. I am trying to make him laugh, or pray. Far mice are eating the noise from your wrist.
*
I am small asking if I can bring some snow with me into the bathtub & someone starts to say no but because we're outside nothing gets finished & later to my mom someone explains how frostbite has been using our handwriting for suicide notes & pain in its unfound egg is drawing its take on pain
*
My neighbor on one side has a pop-gun and my neighbor on the other a candy cigarette. Both are on me to get a pool as if we've seen the last of any mother's blue-headed angel. Like most houses our houses are made of a god listening for the toothpick that sings to a crack from inside a doll. Doll I am not surprised to be with you in the same bathtub where sleep stays to remind death of its failed audition. I don't tell you about my kids.
*
Say poor and I'll say my arsonist son didn't sell a single flashlight. Touch is a debt touch owes itself. A warm boat left on the erasable sea.
*
By the time darkness touches every map, the baby is useless. God a mistake mistaken for a childhood's double life. If there is a horse, there is a horse
thinking only of itself yet also
on the kindness
of a past
horse.
Sight cooks my eye in a voided spoon.
kingsoftrain 