Hands dropped like leaves from the door of heaven;
hand-like, leaves hovered and dropped
out far enough to be the steel drums
making a joyful noise over there.
“Actually…”
The incessant train whistles.
Since this is life, life-speed, let’s pretend
the stain is honey, Daphne.
Since this is life, our fingers are sensitive
lizards and snakes writhing
one chord to another.
A car passes through some water.
A bird is running. Someone
will be famous for wiping it off the face of life.
Spaghetti on a napkin.
And so we went.
The idea of a baby
hovers like a vulture
hovers like an oboe
pulling out your ligaments
your heart and kneecaps.
The bird, too heavy to fly
too happy to run
flute and mandolin, other things
in iridescent feathers find themselves.
Imitating today, your ordinary sleep
your viscera, made all sun-plain.
Face becomes tree-top.
