*
It says that one day they were a blank, blue horde that stirred in me neither a dipped toe or urulate deaf an effluvium denominating aluminum, or even a blackbird in torpor.
Look at it: if nightingale yes, calandra nightingale.
And it undoes itself.
Or light breaks from a box:
And from breathing to omit an aerolite, I groped mud. I groped water from grapes and vine and saw it in the imperative, it wouldn’t rain: three men in pajamas burn the pond. They were called Alonda, called Zacarya, called Harlodt, and they didn’t want dark circles under eyes didn’t want mint liqueur didn’t want haikus. If I drew seaweed on my thighs to give the poem legs it would read elephant or lichen or four-box bird or dead bulls in a horrible doorknocker.
But it was already too late. And they were water levels marked in stone with phosphene brushes. Pigment lining up eras. Or a heron at the pond’s edge that sees me and knows that I’m the mammoth door, that I’m not amber either.
Always absent, always ruitiant.
*
There’s a red noise. There is definitely a red noise. Cyan, magenta is cyanide from your hands. Magenta, amarillo is a magnet I drank. And drinking is a basin and signifies. And signifies is jaw-dropping.
[But this is bait. But this isn’t the end of the world.]
The box was a box of matches, sun magenta. Clouds, not found in countries or brains, camouflaging boxes of matches.
*
Or if writing was jaguar inside staircase child sing green boxes soldiers heard from the mud: I’m thirsty. I’m thirsty bites the lobe. The crocodile laughs, yes, but no one who says: The medal’s yours or fruit or fruit the sun’s medal.
[Glassy liquors, I said yes.]
And it’s not a tiger’s eye or a cage with plastic bags.
And no not golden milk chained to gold.
Nor a piece of an eye.
Nor a piece of.
And it’s not a tiger’s eye or a punctured gale.
Nor a boreal bow that haloes fluorine melting
on the back of green wings on the wings
if matches lit like this
and relayed lactose
buds of freezing in the fire of an e.
Invisible Shoe or Three Visions of a Small Emperor
Milky, flavescent
the stuff in me which does not clarify on the ready slab.
Stillwater simultaneous to the sun abyss, fossilized
lava in my sky, lacustrine calendar
so my hand
so my soul.
My body isn’t gold if a milled salt draws me an anthill
in the body I didn’t have.
Naïve. Naïve. Naïve.
In my uncomprehending, unlit unhouse.
Here is here.
And unlocking doesn’t open when what sleeps is to see and the peel doesn’t sleep and again I am king.
Silence. Silence. No more silence.
Silence was a girl and her imaginary head, stalactite not everyone says stalactite no—and she is nursing.
And the flesh doesn’t hurt me. It’s a sphere. A song waiting for me
on the other side of the night where nobody. In my voice in honey of arms
where nobody.
If you say it two times you spill
sudden flame-stained glass in undating space
you spill
watching over another
“burne sombre”
where to converge is indeed gold and
plasma and fetus.
Oh orchard density.
*
We drew weapons of minimal radiance.
They drew stars, demolished each tooth.
Somebody me that I imagined octopus helmets
or grains of sand in the pulp foretelling
the downpour:
minuscule animals who would fit on an earlobe
if we were better and slept.
But my eyes it’s a spring
of snowy birds purple barrel your beetle.
Golden advances without shouting—Is it?
It rises from spines to daydream marsupials.
Behind the ocean their wings are
distilling hints of red.
Behind the rain there are ladybugs saying Alailá
or saying nipbit.
At the time that an amphibian armored
my clover that went to sing to you
mushrooms in the ear
you grew to a knuckly bramble, that little
three year old head that
honey sun,
honey sun.
Climbing down from your stroller like it was
already written.
*
They were gallows drawn in almelos
to caress my name autophagos if they took place
from nine to nine
circles of atomize in flamboyant cornices.
If your voice were a centimeter farther, it would exist.
If distance were a word they would give me, twelve
pheasants?
Or every fire to forrest a branch?
Straddled, I called out
sky blue frill the silhouette of summer.
Or sun is, there is
and we are
and to look through the window is
to close the curtain on something blue
round, around:
sprigs bells.
And I grasped not yellow
or underlaugh, Uffizi
maybe to tell you that it’s metallic burns in echoes and takes place in apple orchards that the statue in the garden talked to me and told me our names and told me Alailá and told me
also that I am a bird
where trimmed ficus discontinue the shade
yes
nobody will drown me in bones on the lions
their gray cream in the double glare
where it rains, and I.
The Skeleton Who Adapted to the Route
Collecting a cocoon a sort of hat factory that blanches a panorama filled with baby food and wasps and given flames. Collecting a beaver tail that can combine with dehydrator number one. Collecting a garbage disposal unit of snow-covered spiracles (I name her, I lose her). Collecting a “flood.” A “flood” is to conceive a space of storks (still). To murmur: Luzbelle is the conscious light. Dreaming: now a knife withdrawing itself aluminum, now a mob of mosaics with no skin or suicide or nest or rooster, the twin seducing me (on the parallel savannah), the mother’s twin, the mother-to-scale. Home: a blanched mirror, a bird-serpent trail, a bird-of-the-hour trail. (Their name was what they say: diamond-birde.)
And no one called it a rattler.
Neon isno going further than the drawing rocks. No looking at cobwebs. Not even saying: Cobwebs are. No looking at the red bird in the cup when I’m told: Look at the red bird. And no killing cotton bugs with pebbles.
Yes, bears, no more than three.
I already told you: a plateau where the kangaroo and her map-calendar. (Allegory.) A list of numbers in the voice of an arachnida scorpiones I cornered. A boxing ring in the shade like a milky witch. Or witch hairs. Or broth of girls in their rocky-menthol ritual.
No saying ever again: rulgoverage, girafferaze, sacredify. (Solveig
was a name
an epic in the micro-sea of a waylaid snail.)
But Igor, give me a bridge, give me trochaic feet, give me a tractor. (I’m here.) And they were taurines, did you see?—From between their beadembroiderant. Maybe graffitti-mail, maybe ruby songs daily dissolving through: What’s your name?
Vermillion. I was told Vermillion, not I saw the bird
red in the cup. (I heard Little bell.)
The red bird was the gore, the topic, certain cyclops ramp, high accommodated by the madrepore-downpour where it slept: a litany of gas detailing the possible sesame. Digesting tank of muds. So robot, so dog guroo. Also not the canoes where little stars ding ding duophorescent.
Here and here:
lamia-darked shame in pervigilium.
Breakdown: you were the one in the ravine and a balcony and I the balcony in front where I emit. You use neck. The balcony in front means to be. And then you blur and transform into a bird and fly to the left and I say: It’s the symmetrical bird, the modern bird, the axis, it’s the symmetrical bird. And I think of a nuclear shadow plastered to the wall when I say like this.
Like this, or that I slowunfurl my igneous multitudes
in butterfly-elephants.
The butterfly-elephant that all the species at the bottom of that river tell me and twice I’ll tell:
Cosmophasmic Cyclops and
Cosmophasmic Cyclops.
Which is to say: yesterday, after the fog, more fog; there, patrols. Today, in rapid exodus, the storks.
—At a specific time of day.
Snails whip the shadow there. Asterics of rain happen there. A plague of cylinders translating the implicated edge, there:
Alluen, nightsmell, the history
of neon. And I, lean, who saw each their ivory tenant rivers excavating necrosied sweet pyramidsand her green dress
pressed
over the ursulas.
