The dove and the grass share
a genetic relationship.
These things that fit.
I fit with the night sky
where candles manufacture
classic scenes.
There is a constant
banging in my head.
Not sure what it looks like.
I wanted more.
The green light rushing in.
But the light is strobe-like
against the pane.
I am lost inside it
and have been traveling a long time.
My compass spinning.
So I let go of the world
and the world came back.

The sun leaves us homesick.
It is the mundo of existence.
Hangman wait,
I am sick with sunset
as I wait for the past
to recuperate
lines into a beloved.
I awake to a wanting
other than time.
To see past oneself
over here in a poem.
Sound winging.

The world will burst
into green and fall to dirt.
The dirt will green
when the colours come back
into the words
and these colours speak
not for me but for you.
Thinking of all the people
thinking of people
they won’t see again.
And so it goes, high noon
where I worry labour
and its discontents.

I hate hubble photos of the sun,
it looks so fucked up.
I mean, look out man,
the world isn’t stable.
A dog whimpers
in the house next door.
These elements nature.
The orders of spring,
for instance, confuse
the speech mechanism.
The lodestone came singing
but the breakage
in the signal was permanent.

Middle of the night
electrons hurt most.
This is a metaphor.
Though I hurt and wonder
unhinged by maybe
and wave to the unconscious.
Punctuation like damage.
Damage like applause.
The hum of the fridge
is all there is.
Somedays, truth is.
I don’t got a clue.
I was in the midst of death
when I wrote the poem of life.
I didn’t know.