Line to be sewn into a skirt hem held in my mouth ever since the unraveling Line beneath a bridge for years without hope I stretched my arms into the river searching for you Line to be sent to the cornfield history is a hallway of leaves. Line written for electric wires your voice inside the no history, sitting still Line for future people inside the work, only my empty teeth Line from Maharaj Presently you are in quietude. Is it on this side of sleep or on the other side? Line that cannot be read because of its darkness impossible walk under weight of honey away from your hands that break me in half Line addressing President Lincoln when the handle and blade are gone, what remains of your axe? Line to be run over by a lawn mower afraid of everything and to be of no use. Line for a distant midnight dog-pack because I can never speak it Line to be sewn into a shirt collar the streak of your finger across the hood of the car Line for a stone growing old a sunburst that lands inside a flower Line written only with your mouth desire is a trick ghost Line for the garden weeds slowly I am nearer to you Line describing the better qualities of monsters are we afraid of what we wished for? Three lines written for bears inside cells, water, trees, I am meaningless darkness and light wind like breath on fur I carry the circling cities inside me Line for a leaf blown into the hair of the Master seeing you, I want no other life Line for a mouse to die like that, held in your hands
After the Election
Moonlight slept quiet beneath the grandstand,
like flower petals, like highway snowstorms, like each thought
not of November or battlefields. My moping climbed
the Pegasus inside my chest which sped me to you
in this last century of petrol, with my socialism wanting.
I dropped an ocean in the penny. It was November. It was
lost. My wish slept beneath the Pegasus, quiet
as a petrol station or the monotony of socialism,
as if each lesson was not separate from the thought,
but from the ballot box. Like a snow globe of wanting.
Like wanting thoughts not to be octaves. Not free
of the ocean, but of the battlefield. Like a grandstand
sleeping in moonlight, its flower petal confetti, its metal
steps like ballot boxes, sleeping empty now
beneath a dropped ceiling of balloons.