The standard size of envelopes

tonight
mergansers trim the moon language
shave misted verbs before the plunge
let us all in line answer-
word for word
love, concrete
an understanding of wire
as the corrupted
symbol of the steel heart
of stone dropped
instantly dropped in to the body
and counted as a soul,
the same view as Maine
or Brooklyn NYC, I know the
deep intrusion of this copper- it is
oxidizing inside of me, water
fire- first green, now dented blue
lunatic azurite, and wolfs at malachite
more fluvial then animal it flows
to the delineated day
framed in heavy arithmetic
until lit by the sun, all
orange in October
and December medium rare
pink and gray the defined
thing hangs there
ice and Spanish moss like
memories
like hair from every limb
waiting like water waits
for a place to go, with
tiny packages of each stone-
earth and moon, to carry
along like its own.

chlorine the migration of chimera

Condensing tanks
vapor their waste waters
to blue electric, a
flame, a ghost moon
a flare burning out under
water, a river passing into
rock in to language
in to the myth that
created man, hard
hearted and broken
in to a thousand living
landmarks, a sky frozen
and shattered in to
the Christmas lights we
long for, looking up through
trees through the dark
fingers of new man-
stars our ever clear
gaze that stares
down the night and
guilds each walker
home, to adventure
or dreams or the gamble
that this last
saunter will be the
final addition to the
puzzle and walking will
become flying and
flying will be floating
on light water,
the bone hand
lifting of the river, where
the ghost moon nightly
sinks and rises.

the furnace language in semaphore December

all the dead come to
visit in this shallow,
strides like river water ripple the
ghastly and the mundane
at this one hour, the
bones that crush,
dust up the out line of
each ghost, filled with girlfriends
high schools,
cars blank and mute with
clouds and clouds of smoke
hash the edible and the insoluble oil
mixes the memory to
quiescent grease the cement
of my soul at this hour
dead, dead and willing to put
a match to every building, every hut i
could later sleep in, to be now warm.

streets are numbered in the body, bones and more

what is the brick in the field, a pile
of red remembrance, a working mans
cinder a rich mans ashes
walk here in the windy chimera, the ginkgo
bough bearing the faces of each that passes
desolation and Buffalo avenue, collide
in the eyes of trout and heron alike
recording our endeavor recording
the finality of the Falls- on and on for ever,
our history working to shrink this haunting
sliver to buildings and photographs,
anything that can be built up, to fall down
and mark the train yard a red that
remembers bleeding.