the inevitability of exiting a state of no impact

Man tugs an endless vine and he won’t be able to swallow or dodge
falling walnuts or beetles. Hands from holes in leaves act out against him.

There is soil in grooves in skin, in knuckle creases.

I think I am a leaf but keep stroking
Man’s rib cage and putting letter
on letters until I direct a whole wall to encase me.

If there were teeth, each mouth would be gritted.

My paragraph will pass through, unlike tree nuts,
like the line

between leaves and sun bleeding over by the river.

We sleep through the most fragile courses.

Numb hands bent at the wrist stroke
our shoulders with fingertips, while dew is forming.

While snakes and wasps slow down, our skin unhinges, laughing;

Focus on breezes until
even wind is no longer tangible. Focus on holes in a floor.

teacher from the basement

“I don’t think he’s at rest yet”
they agree, saying he’s knocking

on the grave, rolling; Remember
you can only improvise if it is written

down and in bassoon shift;
Knuckles rapping more gently

(than his pen on the music stand)
on the wooden floor, beating joints and fingers

and the swollen notes cough out of us and
out of our accordions still.

Can you laugh like Marilyn?

No, her laugh is less of a sound
and more of a visual something
you remember in retrospect, more
of a hollow bulge of sun, a
billowing neon rock that when heard
is expansive, but you know
from memory there’s nothing

That’s why I can’t laugh like her.
It’s full of light
and I’m made of soil and
lawnmower clippings.

crashes that are not mine (move the rest of the day in waves)

Light is shattering
Across I-70, shards.

Clutter redirecting
open mouths, glistening (Impact, they breathe)

As if I could hear anything but the road
demons braying by my outside rear-views.

It keeps shattering:
a car spilling

across lanes, trucks, tires,
bouncing lights farther

and more comes.

The day shutters

until the unlimited light pinks
at a Maryland rest stop.

My coin slips into the maintained silence
of vending machines.

My coin shatters once blank

Water Slowly Becomes Air

(I am beside the wall)

Standing by the edge.

Air quickly becomes water.

Under the ocean are surprisingly
focused focused tunnels.
Our hair floats in them but we don’t
not now need air.

understaI don’t understand
their directions.

for R.E.C.

Slow and
clean ungraceful metal
shelves dampen.

Libraries are dampened
with shadows, we
read their blooms.

Gather lost skin
cells bundled
into book pages,

their unnecessary fibers
grazing hair follicles,
In which

we decompose
and lighten.
Dampen the chairs;

move them out of the necessary
shadows, our imprints
are only left.

Our imprints are left as shadows
in papers, in bindings, on dusty
dull metal shelves,

on college entrance essays.
Girlie, I’m glad
you didn’t wait for us.

We are left
ungraceful to read
your shadows.