kingsoftrain

map
in dream
what you can
of heaven

be the hurt
child
who fascinates

(birth) spook

thunder
with the soft

horse of male

privacy / my angels

are graves
in a country

of wind

alone in that no-name church of dream

scales of grief
and thrown back
fish

while covering my mouth with a bruise from the robot’s vision board, I wheel our son past a group of seven men arguing the age gap between the first and last immortal and remind myself to appreciate the comic timing of those who move freely from one diaper change to the next without putting a small toe to their lips and I forgive them their privacy and their resting arms and I forgive them for believing absence is a straight line…

the hand
is a thing
unfinished / the father

is a father
urinating / to feel / followed / it is all

so bare / a barber

is never
missing

when
to become
the star
above the bait
of your death
your son
comes tenderly
to the idea
of your kept
fish
and denies
himself
the spoils
of witness
to miss
hunger
as if hunger
were a sister
breaking
an invisible
bread
over the water
you sang
around

first a crawler, then a biter
the one who couldn’t
swallow

language. who cooks

Ohio’s blood
in a pile
of leaves
and uses

the brain of a ghost
to make
from snow

her angel’s
apple

god / as a child / does sleep

go to heaven

memory
is a god
here
in the garden
of no one’s
orphan

an egg in a blindfold
preaches eye
to ash

distance / lives alone / the cold
eats a berry