blood comes to me from a country of dry-humped trees. brother
as a ghost
with a snakeskin
kite. eye
after killing
the camera.
the name of this scar
is
they couldn’t hide
the canoe
mom says there’s an oven
at the bottom of every lake
that I was born asleep
surrounded
by toe touchers
is art
world-building
for the geeks
of grief
have you crucified
starfish
my roommate’s father lives in a skipped year rewatching a tv show about what poor people film with a puking man I call future
the memory
before I have it
of this terrible
thing
I’ve done
/ and the fish
the flaggers
of blue
runways
are swimming
two by two
/ and god has no one
to keep my son safe, I invent hole and hat and await the rabbit. in the meantime, I watch videos of daycare workers beating on food as if kids could betray starvation. but really I’m just sad no one knows anymore how to make a fist. say Ohio aloud and you’ll not notice
a pattern.
scissor his hair
with fingers
from the hand
of your longer
arm
picture him
as a hardscrabble
mystic
gay
/ the frog shepherd
he go to water
to form’s
disciple
where last he saw
his mom’s wheelchair
momless
in a net
made of spiders
lightning, keyhole, the forgetful
giant
blowing kisses
from bed
to the eyelids
of nostalgia’s
immortal
messenger…
is this how I am beautiful in an airplane bathroom
is this the mother burns her own
ears
to get
god
talking
/ stop reading
you come
to crow
why are you here? no one left me. do you know god? boy skipping recess to play dead. is your mother sick? she packed a lunch I’m still eating. have you ever given blood? to a parrot in a time machine. have you ever been arrested? no, but my father is alone. how alone? a fishing pole and a pair of handcuffs. name three gifts. invisibility to bread crumbs.
for a god
who body shames
birth
be
ultrasound
be
what is really a group of nudists holding a séance
in a treehouse
in Oz
kingsoftrain 