Tagged: earth

Angel’s Wing

gnats grow white fungus
in my ears
confuse my eyes with pools

they touch me, expand
get used to me
not moving

I try to see their whole bodies
in a way I’ve never seen
my own body

but can feel it

I am up top, pressed
against glass
I am standing too close

to the moon
It goes down my body
to the planet

I try to see its whole body
in a way I have never seen
my own body

but can feel it

The Battery Effect

tonight it has been red

then yellow, then luminous white
I think coral, copper, cotton, rattle

at one point it was below the water
before that it had never left

now it’s here, and I know instantly
that I know something, just not what

maybe I feel the moon’s knowing, or I
heard something, the stars

discussing the moon’s politics on the Earth
children in their adult poses

they do mounted police, they do plumbing
they do mother and father, who else

they do bullhead, suspended woman
they don’t play the root, as you have

or me, the stone with a root in it
we are fixed to the hood of the Earth

the sun does a firm bounce off the moon
it goes down a corridor before

coming back, unlocking the next
entrance, and the next, perhaps everything

a baby gate opens, the milky way opens
we are ferried back to our rooms in secret

usually by birds, to be checked on later
by tricksters, kings and queens, who

in their wisdom can see themselves coming
as I have seen myself coming, and you

our mouths open to the same phase
your blood a belt of red, the candles yellow

my reach a luminous white

Vision at Fallen Home

we took his couch,
some tools, to help
evacuate belongings

we took his cords

the garden too
has been demolished,
though the hummingbirds
return for the turk’s cap
along the fence

they go from stagnant,
to blistering, which
feels familiar

one transcendence
to another
a tourist in each

thinking about heading back
but pulled out
by color, certain
red objects

brilliant against
old footage
a poppy, a war

in many ways I feel
that we knew each other
before

we must have done

the way you identified
my mouth
like a plant from home

and I know your hands

and I fear so capably
your loss, as if
it has happened

Candida

it is hilarious now – later
we will find it harder
you will cut off your ears
in the tub

your heart will hurry
to the places it’s been, a
note tied to its leg
what if the quiet place

in your mind vanishes, or
worse, is given to someone else?
for now though, this is us
this is a city

that tells us about Jesus
that calls when the grass
is too long, stops calling
when the grass dies off from sun

where the ice cream truck
does circles, donuts
do your ears hang low
til the occasional BOOIIIOIIINNGG

or HEELLOOO?! we lay
in its sound, having just licked
each other, perpetual lawn mower
I guess the gears of the world

dairy for the diligent whackers
and every house, broken in
on champagne, with its windows
smiling through a baby

under expansion, like most things
built to withstand fire
herds of bison, winter, crop
shortages and floods

termites, outages of power
the way things are
underneath, before eventually
there is a die off

a long low moan without
complaint, the REMEMBER ME
of life that has taken hold
bugs in two dimensions

a flattened Earth, holding
more of us, all at once
if she is trying to say something
we wouldn’t know

she is collapsed upon. so
we move forward
with the old way in which
you’re allowed to replace yourself

Thirty

I was standing in line with you
when I passed out, fainted
I guess, and woke up
on the floor

I remember feeling
guilty, like I had overslept
and how different
you looked

appearing over me, like
a mother, or a god
both perfect
and impatient

my elbow hurts – I realize
I must have fallen on it
you say I may have fallen forward
if it hadn’t been for you

how lucky – I am grateful
– I am weak – I am
let down gently – I am
long to see

the security footage
in which your calmness
plays out like a silent film
in which

the faces of the embarassed
become everyone, black
and white, at each moment
assigned a time

SWAT

woke up drenched again, not
dreams, not raining, who knows
– there’s a resiny
imprint of me
on my mattress –

I go through what I ate
when, the withdrawal symptoms
of things like caffeine
pot, what I’m wearing
sleep positions, if
I should shower before

maybe my matress is a valley
my blankets roads
I overheat, sweat
become cold, pull them up

to wake unsure
where the water came from
if it’s water at all, or just salt
if while sleeping, I’ve
been swimming, and
barely made it back to shore

& Countless Other Things

        in my room there are four praying
mantises, two tarantulas, one puppy,
        two people

        matter is neither created nor
destroyed, but some things are small enough
        not to exist until culminated

        sex flicked off tables,
fingernail plate armor, dust bunnies,
        the occasional bird

        squirrels who gnaw 
the owl box
         back into the trunk

        the tree that fell so we
could stand before it, thinking
       through tunnels

        addressing dead starlings,
the consecutive order of ants,
        whether or not

        we should have seen it coming
upright decay on which
        we strung lights

        instead we watched it going
wilting & sopping
        but still holding up dinner

        for us, as much as anything
to get drunk & watch come
        creatures returning with tape

        inseparable to the earth
as if nothing could be greater
        than to be put in its misery