No one seeks peril and yet
there it is, there is
peril in admiring the trees
*****
To say this is real and follows
as I do is not
to say the teeth allow
the tail existence
Treasures drift by sightless but the windows
snag on our eyes
Songs snag
and our eyes are wet with it
The gusts of ghosts trouble
us toward thinking and writing
is always a ghost game
(When Spicer said poetry
is “a machine for catching
ghosts,” he also said, “sex”)
*****
The flowers, the flowers—what
would it mean to be a bee?
To speak in swerves in
a force voice?
words make things name
One tongue travels near
the other and the whole
picture unravels
into movement—this
is not love, but it is
dancing
this is all
gossip about being
this is all
paronomasia and miasma
shaking the entirety in turn
tuning flux
and flaring at the imperceptible
fringes of collision
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