I lag behind the utmost grammar
the truck squeals out when it backs
up
lost without prepositions if no
angels were
the operators do not believe in their
machines
a Vatican of leaks inside your
cellphone
but you don’t believe me when I call
because calling is its own thing,
calling is God
and you always think I have some
other motive
I have no motive I am motive I am
mind
so make room for me in the caravan
across the Sahel because I am also
salt
a word in your mother’s mouth you
hear in dream.
120.
Seminivores all over beaks and tiny
talons
when you see a bird in flight in
truth it’s flying through you
the hollow places in your
close-packed chest his fly-zone
so hurried and so gone by, a clifftop romance
the pale-eyed ghost sits on the
inspector’s lap
left alone the little dog howls
harrow harrow
moon phase sundial water from the
rock
endless embassies of birds at sunset
crisis
they go so fast no one knows where no
boasting
and if the mind be separate from the
brain how wise they are
and we too with our fidgets of the
flesh
inferring trajectories that lead
beyond the real.
