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YOU WILL BE
You will be 5 years old in two days.
Already you feel the knife move under your skin.
Your face loosens, accidents sharpen.
You remember nothing of the
strange sequences that led your toes to uncurl,
but things are alive at the ends of your feet.
You are interested in pointing fingers,
collect each leaf of sunlight, preserve them
in a book the covers of which are nights.
In the years to come you shall look
back on the years to come,
the smell of your shit coming home.
This is your impression of a city.
You accept that the world has a shape but
why make it appear like this, globed
in metal and caked with people.
You shout for clouds, they
scratch you as they pass.
You like to touch those tender
buttons that are mushrooms.
Sometimes you remember
the moon cannot hide
the ice scraping somewhere,
your tongue rises on its thread.
You cannot enter these doors, the voices are strange.
The light is careful to replace things in those
caves of flesh under your skin's precipice
and the bones' openings.
You are asking, where is the grey remote?
commit to what you are amounting to, a truth
on legs, running across a road.
You draw black fireworks,
delirious lillies break from your pen
and your teeth scatter like melon seeds.
You take part in your father's recurrent dream
in which you keep climbing into his bed
and squeezing yourself between his flesh.
You can count on the fingers of is,
the enjambments of doing.
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THE LAW
The law stands like the ruins
under which a new city is boiling up
and coming to a decision about light.
In the city Christ lies in a cupboard
like a battery discharging
into the dark until he runs out like
a crusted paintpot and language
bubbles unforeseen liquid it is
possible to breathe, a new layer between
us and what we are trying to get to.
TENT
The forest grants an audience with
the moss intervening and relays
of smell and small sounds.
A leaf speckles to the suck of a lifted hoof.
The river's text breaks
pages over the water's muscles
where mud-wrestled roots are frogs.
Above what I take to be a rushing of waters
but may prove something
in the ear, or further inside, words strain
still, that we can take no account of,
uncountable as water drips from
the amber fir-cones. The mist
the sun runs its fingers through
is where my tent steams and I inhale
the continents that drift between us,
a plane roars and the sound
never erases, there is too much
scattering not quite randomly
you can trace leaves to their trees
and listen to the water channel its grave.
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