Everything is overhead at this very moment. Biplanes
and constellations drag lazily through the ether,
unhinged fixtures on a dark, static-free channel.
Down here, empires of voices inflate to be noticed,
brushing up against tidal waves of newspaper,
old lingerie escaping from tall clotheslines
dreaming of power outages and fresh elastic bands,
the car horns agree to sing awfully in tunnels.
It’s hot enough our windows are open for anything
to break up into small enough parts and sneak
through the screen to reassemble, alive
and twisting in the living room.
Night’s mask is of cleanliness, wool for the
wandering eye. Unpronounceable shadows parade
into dawn’s blooming furnace, brushstrokes
of new dirt in the old alley, the one named after
the famous writer, what's his name.

Beaconsfield

last night in bed was dark
and confusing, and i thought i became a cornfield.
i was locked in place by the square shoulders of the midwest,
my pillow gone.

i couldn’t run as a cornfield, only lean,
subjecting myself to the occasional breeze
and when i balled my fists a light began
that spread like crickets to my nose’s tip

and there i stood,
in the undressed hours

until a scarecrow on the alabaster horizon
began to shake his tambourine
and he stumbled across the blues
in the rhythm of our aging in open space

loud enough that farmers sprang from their beds
to put their ears to the dirt
and listen to our rising