Mud, feel of silk. Mind can bloom into
anything, plant it deep enough.
Marigolds loll on lollipop heads.
Wind scatters and bends.[since California is its own muse…]
Raw throated. Storm
grows. Loud as years. Hunger
is something you hold in your hips.
[within pure joy exists a kind of hollow]
Things moving. Anonymity of motion.
Face pressed to glass.
A found light at the tunnels edge.
[the weather is not the windows fault]
Words shaved by sparks
danger preserved in the bog of the mind.
What rises, revises, surface.
[Oh the bodies I loved were very tired]
At the fair, at every fair the Psychic sits
in a moveable booth behind
skin of lace and fear. Pace sidewalk.
[I was no sad animal graveyard.]
Find night sweats. Sound of owls.
a construction of questions.
[and after your research among the transcripts of the institution
what gives you immortal life turns out to be the breath of another person.]