Abuse me.

There is more of me to leave.

Like cinders in the forest.

I cleave to my fundamental heat.

Delete me inside.

Too much of me

and you’ll need water to hold.

He is a place

Of marble and speed.

He writes me notes

That I hear.

His story is one of unearthing,

of a sun making casualties of snow.

Over the arc,

absolute shape –

my calves,

finish lines.

His novel.

You will find me alone

next month,

calling music my own.

Women’s illegal tender-

tenderness toward even the kudzu.

If he cancels the length and breadth

of my body tonight,

I will float above him like air from the fan.

Recreation fills me

with finger and tongue.

I am designed for it.

Humanity is crouched

beneath the table

where my glass leaves

a ring.

Dust is wedded to success.

In the humanness that

roams the rooms –

a forgettable act of kindness

in skivvies.

My inner warden

patrols beneath my skin.

Lowly instinct,

leave your hiding!

Your enemies have finished counting,

And have hung your better

Natures from the doorframe

with a steel cable.

I remember the elevator it

Came from,

Dipping the car

Up and down from the bottom

Of the hospital to the top

Like ladle to bowl.

Lemons in the kitchen

are twisted.

The dishwasher is broken,

But the knives have been

Sharpened on teeth.

Out from under the furniture

Comes my neighbor’s

Selfishness and my rage.

I finish my soda.

This should be good.

The down in your quilt

Reminds me of the

usefulness of everything,

even those who lose.

In the smoke of the

gun blast I saw Gabriel

lay down his sword and pray.

The bird fell professionally.

The next day rolled over

to find you warm

beneath the down.

I stand in the sweaty afternoon

with my plucky face bared

to inconsiderate air.

I played cymbals until sound

quit without notice.

Even the waves beat the

rocks noiselessly.

I am leaking from my skin,

Watering the grass.

Marketers breathe into their telephones,

into territories of love and laundry.

into the most private

biomes of gratitude and violence.

Can I buy an antibiotic

for the infection in my thoughts?

Mornings are mundane.

Behind me,

The soundless ill intent

of summer.

Above,

the sun counting the life that

slips from me in grams.

Verdant veracity of the

vertebrate lawn rumbling

in an amalgamation of tongues

about the dangers of sunglasses.

In the house I drink my sunscreen.

The fly watches from

his trap embittered.

I’ll move through death

like a wind in my veil.

He’ll stay still and desiccate.

The lawn has done the

back-breaking work of drawing

meaning from dirt.

I can’t see the arms through

all the wisps of greenery,

but something is being

grasped preciously,

the edge of the sidewalk,

and the personhood of the

greenery is undoubtable.

Urban mysticism,

a religion of glass.

I see myself in the mirror,

and behind my image the

team watches.

I have stolen air that was not mine,

evidence stored in my metallic

blood strong enough to build a

steel city.

What electronic theology is this,

the images flashing in the cameras?

There are detailed views

of the selves,

the only blind spot at

the left hand.

Competing ideology,

steel towers with winding

staircases up the shaft.

At the top,

a thin and hopeless soil,

a contented yesterday,

a bumblebee bumbling.