I busted you following the ants
an absentminded custom
where a woman tree and a widowed home
share earth like an equal heaven.
I saw your hair turn when
you asked me for a heater.
Your mouth shivered, a milk tooth
lost like a forest dweller
grasps onto a hollow arrow.
One of your restless lamps fall.
I ate celery on the back of an angel's ox,
walked around the gold pullet's coup
with a fever and bowed to a water pipe.
As if all my veins are exposed and
everything is sky, like the sense of Krishna's
blue skin. A boy. who
bored in a skirt, floated
a blossom against this whirl.
Part of it is yielding
away from a solid element,
is not knowing the Morse code.
What seems half a wing
or a missed connection
to a somber Picasso--
Attached to the aches, the p's and the s's
...to the flowers you grow.
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