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Songs From A Mountain

Songs From A Mountain
Linear Motor

I am here for my sister with a voice
like a boat if it wasn’t the first time
someone had given me a present
they wanted. Tuesdays are hard for
me, he wasn’t calling me babe, in
August and after Dorsky, sitcoms as
someone’s brother. I left my house to
ride the pedestrian wave, ever since
procedure there is in me a sea. Of
orchids and peasants, moss became
an echo laced by the front door
sounding furious to its own dim
hands. Incremona! there is no color
but things, I work with my feelings or
his red bicycle. (Line.) It took weeks
to clear up the mess, what I have is my
mouth I think to the women passing.
I still need buttons from the store.
History moves in circumstantial years
as artless practice for later entrance
ports. This is about that. Explanatory
holy work in the depths. 

Gornisht Means Nothing

                                               I don’t know
the rule I’m supposed to follow but frankly
nor do I care. The space turned itself out
when it declared I AM NOT SPAIN. Fire, or
some electric sign, a brothering, like a row
of grown-up sisters, to the sounding thirst
I bade farewell, unnecessary acrobat unloved.

Of the mouth we chose ribbons: wallops painting
Tiburon, rock crystals forming in the mind of
an antler. Just as birds do enter gladly, a private
city will sing anywhere that heights turn cold
in the morning—we argue enough or
not at all. Blame the children, their questions

all that’s left to fill the light, an old door
doubles like a doorbell sounding Italian,
sub-country phrases subpoenaed to sleep;
O illiterate meadow: if I had stars, had
charged them tonight or if light was a fixture
of tractors, streets might find their sound

resistance debatable: look how women
run into the world, the gold bangs of a
window wanting to be brought inside.
The doorbell feigns broken, too many lights
on at home there is nobody I’d rather eat
lunch with but that’s not true anymore.

Some women put things into a basket
but this fumble on the bench, it’s not
for me. When I was yours my arms
were longer and grammar was all we
needed. Now that I’m the theater I’m
tired, I pretend that I’m not listening,
pretend that I am Spain, and like mothers
let night-lights let rivers make the sounds
those interpreters might help us remember. 

Husband, Comfort, Aficionado

Anticipation don’t emote me from
the mountain, long boiled millennia
calling from the middle of a tender sea
like goldenrod. Austerity waiting in the
sun, in seasons for lights to flick on, God,
I’ve arranged what I want a woman to be
continuously sighing don’t do drugs on
me. (I don’t recall whose hair I braided
but I did a fine job.) Jean-Paul Belmondo
playing a Ben from second grade with
radioactive likeness. I decided to let
the train get my body to the city that I
eschew but hours a day, how may I direct
your call? Willfully I’m certain now
there is everything and a corresponding
sea. Purple flowers tall as tendency, they
have tickets for the theater. The bed
a painting what do you want from me.

Ordinary Seaman

looking for a light to turn
on; Ursa minorly less feigned than
the option that stars were ours
to come back or that I’ve replaced
the flowers with marzipan

You Can Run the Moon

Of the minor apocalypse the self borrows
sensation getting ahead of its street hawker.
The lions and my friends are outside, there’s an
Eighteenth-Century Farmhouse with a Pool.
Low valley of marauding seas, I’ve been taking
bigger sentences to the desert to see them laid
out in the sun. This isn’t winter light: of the
two possible images one is winning and one
is snow — so let us patent tomorrow. A
human spark plug, he could make anything
decent, a ladder that put me to bed
sometime between August and the
subsequent landslides, the alternate
saloon light, god be it fair, fat women
with long hair.

                             Supposing beauty,
opalescent hands mark the sea for the
cartographer, light like pure cheering.
Life! Light and waves. A photograph of
seduction trapped under a tree, tubs
where summer dodged before it could,
yes, the wind and whatever that does,
variations on scenes from the end
of the world — not at all — it is American
plain and in the dark. We want nothing
and also to be there, however long it takes to
tell a story, animals endlessly returning the
children to bed. The world, fog or fire
it must be something. 

                             And while I’m no one’s
diminutive statue I call myself from some
painted distance. The desert a bowl of Arcadia,
I have no other pens. If I felled you, and I felled
you, I might ask nothing of a man under a mountain
or a fruit star wondering cloudy however it got to be
this here, now. My gun a small gun, still all of it
America; paper cups in a chain fence, welcome home.

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