Water under the world:
for value we curl & wind our wounds
to speak—for our awe
we circle our areolas with fingernails
lightly forming you—woman—I—man—
From nothing curls nothing sweet,
ink just stains on paper—
legends outride, walk ahead—
a festive little prayer—gentle little claws
the car famously goes no faster
bitter about this—it is true—
my sight shifts, rams across the license plate;
blood is not in the eye, then,
but before it, richly
running, turning & resurging below the conjunctiva
& proves the humanness of eyelid—
a questing hole into which is given
a perch for the light that we allow.
With a life meant to be with roam & verge
of covering—we sleep, we slip into this
insongg. We letter along our necks:
Honest lungs let out all poverty.
Talk with words; everything else slips together.
Author Discusses Poems