This I, this me, I’m speaking from
a book. That brain that taught me delicious
things, forgivable trains, a signal business.
I don’t want to be tragic, even to
the goldleafed bug. I, Walt Whitman, with
Texas in my mouth. Dismiss this fantasy in
favor of our startled shade. I remembered
my tricks and what they did. Even apples
aren’t free. Our life against the midnight
lens: poor Crusoe on Mars. I’m walking
through this wall of air to comfort my senate.
Why No New Planets Are Ejected from the Sun
These our ships are the copies of copies.
This x is that, lifting off the dock. We
think we’re here because we’re
crouching in the umber of syllables, that
sun is “killing me,” a flag
among flies, our frozen boat in frozen
oil. Let’s haunt the beach instead
of this history beset with cosmic jelly.
At the blind is it morning already? This
word has meant so many things, I need a
fence to move this gem-like feeling. Or
I’m that bus, in hacked-up disquiet,
stuck at the light.
Oil and Water
One person’s idyll is another’s
confinement. Midnight everywhere is praying
through the noise, a token of the obvious.
Hours blurt out buds like synonyms of battle.
Depending on your subject, a cup may be a
sword, dropped on the tile like a capital “is.” To
put away, to be instant, like “the
sands of Iwo Jima,” an eager policy
toward the nearest sea. Something dreamed
a fire would quench it, something drew a
finger through the fire.