go to your ghosts
The clouds are on sale
making slow mistakes
above Sunday walkers—
a dream about punishment.
Capitalism is to brandish,
to be the wrong ass of an ox,
to be a surface.
I am a river
or a worm.
I can wait all day
for my hair to dry,
for a season
to confess itself unreasonable.
Insult as ordinary as instruction
remains in an envelope
of snakeskin
of pliability
leaving the window
taking the last scrap of dust
off the monstera
by the credenza.
Nighttime wicked
best guess
a staircase dressed in black.
Is this a horoscope
or a doctor—
this moment on arrival
headed for departure in the fuselage.
Incapable of magic tricks,
a diamond when it’s ready.
I had a forest
and it, too, must burn
guest water
into the museums
of spring
space begins to nauseate
i am in an argument with the lighting
the bucket, the desk lamp
a horse moves a drift-less chair
closer to me than this crooked mallard
i feel my head
it’s forever
heaps of husks
hired hands
plucked and docking
over the curb now
past the yeshiva and tire shop
and seven hours to Chicago
sanctioned against
a clogged neural pathway
or train, or a graduation
the shirt still pressed
a ceremony where waiters and Freemasons
deliver the same news
it will be another year until I feel safe
from third world internet
live-streaming myself as a tanager
I go through periods where I am a basement
wary of how to exit.
