Before I knew
how to walk,
I knew how to sing.

Now singing and
walking are the same
continuous

(contiguous) action.
I walk songways,
releasing a roller-

skating future,
a waving-
naked street.

At night, my teeth
are birds or are
they flying dollar bills?

Once I restored
the earth’s sight.
Now even my own

fails me. Tell me,
is that a birch tree
feathered with pride

or just another slow-
walking lady, twitching
her raggedy eyelashes?

When a toddler rides
a metal horse, she absorbs
its dream-grammar,

finally understands
why edges
dissolve in sleep,

why her skin will
never be as real
as the ocean—

her breath always
less alive than
the vulnerable sheet.

Sir, insister,

inert tires rest
in stern trees.

Sirens sire
resin irises.

Ten nests
rise, resist.

Tinier
nets stir.

If I am angry, blow
on my words until
they cool down.

All the anger
in heaven fits
in an eyelid,

or so I’ve heard,
but here I am
without any eyes

or eyelids except
my damn own
floppy ones.

If you want my photograph,
try closing your eyes.

There are so many of me
inside there, waiting

to be caught, shivering
like a second set of teeth.

Organs drag sand
on angora roads.

A sad dragon
or a saran gonad?

Ragas soar,
odd dads goad

radon sarongs
as grand as

an argon god
or a sonar rod.

We’ll meet again
once you relent,
and your mouth

and the wall
are one, once
you forget

the taste of air,
the shadow’s
indivisible smell.