the food the table the window

we first know our parents
through the deaths they have
suffered- the terms at which
the accountable heart becomes
softly human, and the
man, the woman become
more than stockholm syndrome
and adore- becomes a
holy word, and the child's
feet fill with clay and
carry the body full
of ghosts across a field
of corn stalks turned
back to earth.

the fifth against the wall

consider
the
terradactyl sex
so extinct
in me
so morbidly
obese
that rock
dwells
eons under feet
and moves to
soft sand,
a gentle
wind
kiss
so long
on the
island's shore like
more elaborate
games and
bobbled breezes
squeezed to
hemorrhaging,
the finger nail
burnished red
to gray the
russet
colored one
tastes first
of love-
the rein
before the hand,
the heart should
lead and let the
that fruit plant
deep its seed
and flower there
again.

back story and undo

Komatsu raze the
city, the sharp stroke
of gears, chains link
brick to the devastated
sand, washing down
Rainbow boulevard, a clue
to how far we have come
the blocks vanish and
dreamed monolith's
mirror
both suns in it
the east constructs
sharp yellow
ascendancy
and the easy blue evening
encroaches at
sun sets cornered
and silent mouth
so think our body is that
monument solemn in darkness
the sun burns on
though the world has
turned away, and
the cycle refreshes even
the ash of the old city
in the broad company
of morning light, the body's
heart expanding to greet
warm being.

rattled in the brezze of meaning

deep in the green
rush, some thing
corresponds with the river
its long hand note, is
sent by the notion,
of movement
of the bare foot touching the
untouched forever, and there
knowing the persistence
of the grower
to keep on under
the asphalt cover, the
street dwindles and
recedes and is hoped back
by the community
of hands
it is black then gray
then blue under the spring rain
and the men call out under
its weight, for rest or
abandonment, and i walk
over this labor, loved
and hated, and i move
toward the
river, the silent completion
that leafs through each page
of being-
and dumb as snake ribs
caresses the walls of
its haunted sheathing, and
suggests a crawl
as if it is evolving
toward a more recognizable
casing, or is it
my thumb, and fingers
crafting digits to grasp-
in delusion, a understanding.

even grows the thin man

i.
knowing there is a
broad leaf waiting,
knowing there
is a
bullet changed
for gold
for water
for mineral rice, i know
there is some thing
willing to push
the street up and
willing to
flatten the sound of
sirens and church bells
and guard dogs
belting out
there beating
on
me: sleeping,

ii.
the sun is green
today
and muddy with
clay
the volcano of
creation,
violently takes lead
in the parade,
the flowers have come back-
is it
even possible-
can't
you now believe
in resurrection
being the hind
leg and dangerous
scratching out the
silver bulbs of being
tubes that reach down
to the middle
of the earth where
the hand opens to
the heart of
all things- cool dirt
the hard hope
of new seasons
the thunder
at the foot
of falls all night
the orchid grows
while you remain unwilling