Landed in Albuquerque, drove
To Santa Fe, doves
Scattering in the driveway, my sister
Was reading about Mormons, my mother
About mystery in the Virgin
Islands, I slept on a bed composed
Of air, chased it
Each morning with a cup
Of coffee, a storm
Hit and the ponderosas dutifully
Bowed, a skunk rooted
Beneath the hot tub, near the night
Spider whose body resembled
A bird’s egg and was ornamented
By a single diamond, all
Week I chucked rocks against the monotonous
Adobe, my shoulders turning
Pink, the clouds turning charcoal as so
Often morality dwells in the driving
Out of fear, so that what
The centrifuge flings malingers unseen
And this wall remains nothing
More than a loose flag
Of fingers draped idiotically
Across the eyes, we need not be
Let alone, we seek the acknowledgments
Of company amidst
This cycling of refuted systems, the shocking
Green eyes of a young girl
Named Kori widen as she tells me of an elevator
The size of a living
Room and I watch as hummingbirds
Spar in abrupt fits over
A dish of sugar water, I myself
Worry over a world grown
Pathologically soft in its revulsion
Of horror, in its acceptance of error
In the late summer breeze
My forearm hair feels particularly
Inarticulate, receiving so much deciphering
So little, too often I invigorate
A line of discourse only to have it
Stump when the telephone
Rings, I dreamt I was a comedian
And the audience was
Laughing so hard I never
Was able to tell
A single joke, so here
It is—the work that I do does
Nothing to things, I leave home to imbibe
The dislocations of astonishment, to lose
My way and find another, tricking
The moments into line
Before defecting into rearrangements
And if I write as if language
Were a series of decrepit apartments
Harboring squatters
I am apart, the sun
Penetrates where the air
May not pass as
Each experience happens twice, even
The panic you feel returning
Home to a strange figure in the dark, even
If it turns
Out to be the innocuous
Shadow of a Buddha
Planted among the flowers in the garden.
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