If ghosts existed there are some men
who could never effectually belong
to a thin as air congregation,

Ship-building emperors commanded
these night-obscuring giant beams,
with open-work like ribs defended

There is another room
You could spend time in.
What a shame not to enter

Ferocious flower
Cast out

Dent de lion

Imagine a dot
On the horizon: that is
Him, your beloved.

Slicked
    with a birther’s goo, it 
    gleams up green from the ground— 

When I returned to the hive I was one
Among many, in a blistering hum;
A braid of air had brought me far from home,

Aurelian,
        who studies the emergence of butterflies 
from chrysalides,

Once in the sweet dark of an empty house,
All alone while the others slept upstairs,
I knelt before a memorial candle

So many poems begin where they
should end, and never end.
Mine never end, they run on