Now My Lungs are a Clogged Rabbit

Carla Harryman / Rae Armentrout / Walt Whitman

There is blood / first in the pores and mud-cracks of my hands which turn in
concentric motions around the heat and then above my bed as a kind of assurance and
proof of quality I can entertain but never breach / thus a village of in-grown hairs
framing a median as first a column of letters but slowly a dozen marshmallows begin
to steam and make whale noises / marches upon our cities turning ghosts into greys
and back out again

I wish a puddle
of immaculate
gestures
would vacation
on my knee

                    with no food or hair

        we stand violent and dead
        sad about a guy on T.V.
       
            who drink OUR milk
            who fucks OUR syllables up

when sleeping
a cloud passes our car
sings in Spanish
and lopes off toward water

the water and space being the first in consideration of American PERIL / we see in a
distance what is a carpet fiber or brick hay stacked like broken floors upon broken
floors or our many families turned and shaken / our spare change in piles / I sing a
reflection of myself which is a stack of broken floors upon all other broken floors
/ a hole where beans are kept cool

as soil cools it reflects back concrete which reflects back paint / a machine which
drives us to a place where food is sold / 
                                      
                                          Along a ridge
                                          a break in metal
                                          and then a pull
                                          around and back
                                          water around white
                                          space