in laundromat
my stomach
moves
my bed
my blood wears a blue sock
and a fly goes down on melancholy’s crossword
my sister is here to have gum in her hair
and hair
in her mouth
tooth is the ghost beak is not
mom makes us wear most of it home
the animal’s first time as something else
i.
swimmer was a cornfield baby
ii.
fox clock, always
noon
in the egg thrower’s
aquarium
iii.
playing tag
no blood
allowed
iv.
her bones
disappear
when pups
nurse
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
