His watch is wicked, going on
without him. Pass your hand
across the blue man’s lips and

We fix the ages of the irises at flower,
stop the eons of the oranges at fruit.
For ripe is ready when we eat, and beautiful is full

The wheel went round and left me
on a block of broken bottles,
spirits spent. So where

Locality is all
you light, and you, as single as a bed.

that tough old bird the gull
hauls across the last-chance bars

As if intensity were a virtue we say
good and. Good and drunk. Good and dead.

practicing the lash
on his wooden top
a child stays very real

There is a mushroom called
solitary inkwell
also black egg

then he can do nothing but sleep
repudiating
childhood and adulthood and old age.

A soft body fills itself with silence.

The hour has the flavor of its time.

in complete peace a body bares itself

dry bread keeps
a taste of the legend

the reflecting pool is stagnant
deserts pursue their mirages.

even if it looks at you
without uneasiness or hate

He watches the weather’s sepia

the grass fire can be seen
raising its smokes