Night Snow

It is laid
and it falls.
It is here
and there
and every page
of the night
forgets its number.
It is though
and it is past
and it is coming
as the cyclops
eye of a train
delayed a mere
few centuries.
You know
the whistle.
It lays down
a tablecloth
over the lake.
It is in the lamps
of the streetlights
and the dark places
between houses
where they
cannot touch
but only grow bars
and other places
where people
become mushrooms,
can only
look and look
at the brightness
all things
dead and busy
in the darkness,
through no window.

Thank You for Being Here

I go into the backyard. The lungs of the sky are dark. It is going to snow. The sparrows fly from the naked hedge to the naked Carolina Allspice bush. They thrum from one skeleton to another skeleton and tip and balance on the arcs and tops of branches like acrobats balancing atop poles in circuses long ago, circuses long underground. Still, the plates did spin. It is going to snow. The lungs of the sky are dark. I pour birdseed from a Big Gulp cup across the ground. The millet and sunflower seeds and whathaveyou deploy a galaxy. An edible galaxy. “Eat quickly before it snows,” I pray to the sparrow minds. And: “Thank you for being here,” I say to them, to the sky preparing to annihilate so much life. As if the rest of life were an audience and I an emcee. The illusion of a sort of control in charity. But we both know, Dear Reader, the desperation is mine. I come as beggar to them, the eating of their meal an alms to me. The sparrows live and die by cold, clean in their magnetic souls that draw them each to each, as they depart, as they arrive (no difference) through the snow.


You want to be a bringer
You want to bring something
You want to bring it to the people
No, you change your solemn mind
You want to bring it to the animals

This is a wise, a tactical swerve

Nothing may be brought to the brightness of people
That is the miracle of death
You can bring things to the animal
And you can bring things to the animal inside the people
They can eat and absorb things

If they are interested, they will chew

But the person itself
It is an impermeable membrane

It’s a different kind of will

It’s like a mouth of rust eating and talking at the same time

The Amoeba

I am soaking in a kind of solution
like a world. A kind of “I” is soaking,
doing something like, in a sort of world
of likeness. A world made up of likenesses
that talk among themselves. A likeness world.
How alike I am is just how real. I am soaking
in a kind of solution like words. The words
are there, but there is something more. That jelly
of besides might be the real thing. But I can only
cipher it, race towards it through more liquid doors
of liquid likenesses. Every time I think of the world, a fissure
occurs between me and it. I’m multiplied. I’m more words,
protoplasm. I ooze towards the truth and some part of me
that broke off might get there. But it will never know
that some thing like me started the process. The memory
that goes forth is only a simulacrum of a self,
and it finds my primitive speech something extraneous
to my animal, something to forget. I am on equal
footing with the pseudopodia of the amoeba
when it comes to the inner writer’s opinion of me:

“tl;dr” said the DNA to the organism.