You love to see it—discrete individual units realizing they are not / at all that. Like a grass field caught in wind, finally understanding / its purpose, I breathe with the sound of God breathing.
No one said much / just / this makes virgins, that // makes pollution.
he is remembered // like a stoic painting. it looms over / his organ, static from years // untouched, nesting nutcracker / and country hymnal.
How the distances collapse when / moving at speed, several instances of relapse folded until one prolonged scene, an / abrupt start from sleep.
Call it oxymoron, where to shed is to gain worship, / polish escaping into the hidden temples of my teeth.
clean of me, my rod, / creel, sturdy / shoes, jack knife.
a better poet / could get that one down, don’t you think, Placido? Could you / sing it for me, omitting the bit on “stillness”? Yes, I want // to vanish only under the weight of silly things.
along the fields of cotton / your sense of ghost is in the mesquite, live / oak, and huisache. your entrance to all this / is membrane to every person that’s purpose is // now horizon.
it’s midnight: / I can see it in the living // room: it’s clear, I’m standing in / the image, distant: here // I hear, so let’s begin: //
You send the breath through the valves / over obscured waters, toward / the north of a second sight.
since that day, i’ve never had a beautiful sentence to construct / for the world. my dreams, since the tulle and the guns, have been misty.
In my blood, a continent. All the warring countries—almost reconciled. They breathe together as they weave through the marbleized muscle of my heart, taking their communion of oxygen, amen.
I’m so well recovered I dream of cramming teeth into my gums. Smile like an alley of garbage cans, a pane of bowling pins. Give me metal, I’ll gift you a turkey. And now the poem turns to …
If I show you an image of a bird flying, you might think freedom, or graceful, or wings. You might remember your mother pointing to the sky, naming the bird starling, heron, crow. But all of that is …
we take turns / taking pains / on the days we stomach together. / you’re in / prime / puking condition / after a bloody-nippled marathon. / idols are made / in amniotic fluid, clay / and tough …
The air - was Close - the Pane - slid High - / The Sill Imbued with Dust - Gave Up / A Maple Wing - of Brussels Lace - / A Tachnid or a Horse - Fly -
A LINE BREAK IS A LOVELY THING SEE IT'S NOT EXACTLY A PERIOD OR A COMMA IT'S KIND OF LIKE A HALF-BREATH OR A MOMENTARY PAUSE OR THE "MA" BETWEEN YOUR CLAPS OR A KNEE LENGTH DRESS I MEAN A LINE BREAK …
When my mind plucked me / abruptly from earth and gently // laid me in abstraction, time went and saw / the world.
My sons are already / crawling, crawling / over the rug where / we used to lie / talking, talking / about our days / and day in the ab- / stract—
THE FIGHTING CONTINUES // as daily 30 corpses / continue life performing the same / highwire act // Long-established toponymy / today it’s known by heart / that Tecoluca and San José las Flores / …