Sometimes if you’ve been in and out of them a lot for you
The clouds and layers of air and color become stale.
They can boil and twist, spill blood on the plane,

Where are my robes, my sword, the minted coins
inscribed Pros Doxan…? I ascend my throne.
When the Bishop, bearing unction, comes

The moon isn’t looking for solutions.
She’s grown accustomed
to partialities,

Old wolf, I said,
leave a tatter
for my family:

 It’s nothing. A blue wheel blurring, and a wind
catchless, clicking at a window’s high
startless framing—a fixed, transparent eye

1.

How do they get so close to the window,
a tree in figment, arithmetic moon?
Summer broke you, winter builds you—

In the world of friends, where travel is slower,
What do you do there, in the world of rain?
Who shares the segments of your tangerine?

We fly above Kenitra
Circling so low
I almost smell the fig trees’

Scraped the last $8.48
from the glass jar.
Your day’s worth of tips

at the nail salon. Enough
for one hit. Enough
to be good

till noon but
these hands already
blurring. The money a weird

Nel mezzo del cammin what one finds is beans
and wrinkled cabbage and an awful case
of ambling vacuity, an affliction resembling