2

The table is all sex with knives––you stack



a metaphor on, thought you’d find it just

then. You watched the plates, forks, tea

cups, the wine bottle ringing themselves on

the tabletop. In bright orange red tones

cooled by air.

3

So close to sleep you thought you could fly



until you were four.

The sun overhead not round, not a disc,

you feel a column reaching up out of your

skull.

I saw you in all the windows at once and then

in one after another when you woke still dry

in your rain clothes.

4

Since there is no war here except

in these head-frames.

Containment become paradigm––the crisis

as we ask for stronger poison––a way

across and back across.

So many voices with your ear to the intake

valve to the tea pot to the architecture to

the birches to the perineum to the corti.

With sound balance, you made a whole

note, the wind in a barrel.

5

Is there one truly human act left? The boy

waddles into the kitchen with shit in his pants.

When you traced the photo

of the spiral galaxy, tiny

limestone crystals in your

ear were pulled by gravity,

the motion of the head.

You can bring back a constellation

in different light––a moment when each

object’s voice was clear. Mostly you heard

the teapot and awning.

Hills circle the wreck you know is moving.