There is a puddle of violets
Behind a house in the snow
It is a hallucination
It is a coming home
The boards of the house
Now, they are filled with wind
They are soaked in rain
The carpet is a brand-new moss one
If there’s any ink left, let it run
A field approaches the house
And tries to engage it by wind
Through the yellow wild grasses
It goes like love mist through the curtains
Still dancing in broken windows
Oh, you have made no mistake
Says the wind to the house as a lover
But the empty house weeps like a sinner


You keep a snake plant in the room
to funnel an idea of life
a sort of green vortex
breaking up
Maybe there is a blue sea too
a form of a piece of tissue paper
cut out to be minimalist
button and sleeve of art
where you wipe your nose
It is running like snobbery
in the new old America
now raising its horns
people are throwing chains
through the directionless air
The humans are about to be wrong
The fire is about to be right
The fire is about to be home


I am not accomplished
Says the grass below my feet
I have no curriculum vitae
I have only my DNA
My wild successes my wild failures
Everywhere I burst into flames
People slash and burn me
Animals heedlessly dung on me
Some of those animals have MFAs
I could teach a workshop on “How to Be Grass”
But oh who would come?
Probably only other grass
That lacks the confidence to know what it is
That it’s already the same starry stuff everywhere
I would just let wind into the room to awaken it
And maybe we would do The Wave
To bring home the metachronal rhythm of all existence


The football stadium
across the mostly buried street
did not win this year.
The mostly small
football stadium, the mostly
small year. The young men
chosen for being too large
failed beautifully. Crash
went their egos, their
helmets, their future
names like butterflies
in the sports announcer’s mouth
on crisp October night air.
Now the stadium is alone
with its thoughts, waits for snow
to touch its aluminum bleachers
like a cheek. It’s human privilege
to look where something was
and is no more. This is a kind
of winning. You will eventually
win your own stadium.


The sound the drain makes
After it has swallowed its full share
When I spoke his name today
Walking under trees of a street
Enjoying being alone in the rain
There was a slow hiccuping of the darkness
All around me, possibly from the earth
Not that he didn’t have a halo
Of car crashes and beautiful daughters
Whatever could distract him
Begrudge him nothing of that now
Now nothing begrudge him
Nothing he did in the ghost of cups
Even his unflattering death
No more crime to the queer gods
Than wearing an ill-fitting suit
One moment in their sight


Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves