The White, the Rockbound
The moon is the kind of birthplace who,
if in the process of blooming
a fine son stopped pressing his shirts
as he’d talked his head into wonderment
about fathers and minerals (their compilation
of traits), would become soundless
in an excess of famous answers.
Music is Heard, Crook’s Theme:
Before the house lies a sugar trail, curving beyond the forestage into the orchestra.
, shyly, beaten:
Pardon me, the burglar too, but
if the sky is always seed-black …
live birds in pastry shells!
All I’m suggesting, contemplating really,
is that we put burglars in the noontide.
Truthfully, a burglar who has to deal in no color,
wiggles too much.
Down swoops a blackbird and pecks off his nose!
, pressing two fingers to his eyes:
With the aid of forked branches
all my syrups were stolen, nim!
fire stolen, rickety nim!
On Burglars’ exit, the light on their grip grows brilliant and strange.
I Guard Your Bees
Each scar is a bandaged horn I hold.
Mouthparts zipping and cindered like gold
People run from a few things—fields that drone,
skin stitching adorned to hold
and hold and the rest is there, lumpy in a waist of heat
because there may never be another pardon,
inhaled around all our necks, whose labors and geysers
scrape from within shiny bumps and hair I hold.
Waking up the crook would look like this
In those hot places
where the streets are always prepared,
a companion animal is on the brink
This low dog has dragged himself
out into a field of patina cribs
Antique Guard as I imagine. He yelps.
His hot bed springs, his steel frames.
There is ice in the best humid air.