---For Sandra Simonds
Translates to a "home of the wind"
or the slender meat between teeth.
A tiny incubator wrapped in the sound
and I saw one too. Only with better economics.
It is bent harmonic light along a shaft
an inbreeding neutral, gory with fangs
and god we could almost trust those trumpets.
Tiny fur melts and swims, swims.
He crosses the tar pits and diaphragms
that a humble snake snatches at.
O to be a linebacker snaggle-toothed by the sea
drinking cup after cup and saying, eyes
can't I believe no one has ever seen
or grown over brick walls and canopies.
Fuck Where The Red Furn Grows
Fuck trueblood blowing kisses
Fuck wind for prayer
Fuck blowing kisses underwater
Here is a shallow spot amongst gangs.
A man hops up gallows and and rests his head.
Figures in the ice now gone and again and gone.
Montana, do you ever sing to the moth on my chest.