These days I craft the forays of my ghosts
into the vessels of my hands. But the iron
rusts even in this dead river.
The nails are borrowed and when
the claim comes due I’m not sure
what will be left of this wooden sky.

I can’t remember the blood I was boiled in.

Desire is a vast wildness; how could a man
only wander in it for forty days. Does not the
wound of water scour a madman to purpose?




.

The sinner in you can eat the sinner in me,
what would I do with this salvation but burn down another church.

I seek the gardens where the bodies are, the reaching
of life into death to pull out the stillness of hearts.

Secrets sewn into the corners of your mouth, bees and birdsong,
bitter roots and apples fallen for the mistaken smile.

open like a flower, like a coffin, hard wood and satin hiding the nails
holding you together. Glassed eyed and tongueless you know it is not me
who will climb into that perfumed abattoir.

I used to be a god, now I want to eat my ice cream sandwich in silence.

.

There is an errant sunbeam that lets me count
the hair on your arm. I want to count the words
that are left before should and have to. It is a
way of impressing the present into some future.

I pull a fuzz from your coat sleeve, my hand
trails down the wool until the hard domes of
buttons, a warning. I stop for your fingers, 
pressing each one briefly, so they are noticed.

I smile into the absence, your eyes smudge
through the sweep of your hair. I pretend the
number of footsteps away equals the number back.

I count the raindrops enough to know it is
raining. The hours shift into shadow, unless they
have given up. Even a blank stare renders numbers.
Nothing never adds up to nothing.

.