These were your sighs,
your toss,
the listing yoke

I dream
of magazine covers
and clothes from my seventeenth summer,

In a field of broken antlers, 
I’m holy
as the grass 

I don’t give
a pound of
mule mucous

I give up:
I bleed I must know.
Grant me the

Although it is noon or roughly so, the church below is
   positioned like an hour hand 
at eleven o’clock, 

So many channels to choose from. Somewhere
in the high numbers blockheads trash-talk
during recess in the blue playground near school.

The good life is unbuttoned, questions
about gender just stirring after a raucous night
under the hammock. Rumor has it that trellises

Baseball is the purest sport, meaning
ballparks out in the heartland, mixing
fork balls and slurves, tapping

Everything about
a human
is doomed