I
A sinister crutch like
trash heaps bowling along
the street.
II
I envy the
bird,
black-eyed and begging.
III
The kinds of water – in ripples,
and sunken other boats.
IV
The dogs run leashless
and trot.
They don’t care about
the weather.
V
An evening is
taking place
even as morning
here, now
can’t strump it’s limply face.
VI
I don’t feel comfortable
with edges or porches
the humility you get all
alone like dimensions
that fit only comfortably
in your rafter darkness hung
by the window, the open one.
VII
Feeling through fed
funding, fool sack like a
bitch; blue-plate the oil
that lifts machinery
down to rubble.
VIII
Long time springs
a faultless morning
draped in wet winter
and light seemed like darkness
so you drank it all night.
IX
These pitiless files
leaving the lost things out.
And curl a finger, in waiting.
X
Dark ducks this morning
swim and sulk and
protect their feet
like they had feet anyway.
XI
He rides his bus
and talks to the younger
women who talk to
one another about
last night’s trifles
and boys 20 years younger than him.
XII
No such resonance
in reasoning something stupid.
XIII
Cannot wait to
want not want but
to see 20 dying
dark ducks miles
back from here.
