what time I have
to write
I spend
writing.
the insect
in the room.
infants for the end of tourism.
your mom
salting
the empty
doll.
the fat kid
whose mother
owns
a video store
will
for a dollar
let you touch
his eyeball
he is maybe
the church
of the seizure
I had
in a church
that is gone
much
like blind
invisible
women
I prayed, yes
but in
a dream-
ghost
was a book
with pictures
eating lamb
for his lovely
misheard
boy
alien
that I failed
my boys
are lonely
it changed me none to see my father rubbing a lamp in a time machine. mother, too, ain’t been different
since.
–
mirror miss your clock.
high we are beaten for acting like the same horse. memory invades the afterlife. I talk only to the animal that takes me to my sound.
she says
three times
the word
brain
to her stomach’s
blue
mirror
and scores
sight’s wardrobe
of rags
in earworm’s
dream
i.
a puppet’s
glove
a gift
from the pilot
of paper
doll
ii.
a sock for the melancholy of distant hand
