not sure what to do with with a poem about things that move in the dark because it seems to say nothing

Screenshot (2)


Fish Eye

I am a slippery,
a silvery purple
fish; flickering.
Looming shape by the sun.
A row of wet muscle.
Feed my expectant

A memory is
an echoed drop of salt, one
million times one million times
rattling in
some gray direction by
a propeller
air rushes up.


a morning dust.

Rise. thin and quiet
slow, mist:

a million eyes
empty, one hushed deity

tinseling in space
of leaves of grass,

dew shaken, suspends, monotone
the memory on a seashore;

watching a uniform pattern
lapse again, again we see=watch

half dark
half light

a bead on a string
between brows, never expected

to be a curtain. to find anything
in a place half built.

In a sky that signs it’s name

In a sky that signs it’s name
on every field, every leaf,
the clouds bloom waxy flowers
with their backs to the sunset.

Let me not forget the bright
and dusty sky, the layers of trees
so close to falling
off the edge of the earth.

So close we are to running
through birdsong and tree trunks
we forget the color of pavement,
the mask of cars and streetlights.

At night it is dark,
close and quiet
enough for a mouthful
of pinhole stars,

calm enough to meld a world
of dirt and angles with dreams,
and far enough from home
we forget we had another.

Dear August;

You listened to my voice
and still carried me home,
pleading please go, please
singing to thick night air
and metered yellow lines;

We move in unison, through silences
and humming mornings, happening upon
clouds and moths and dirt roads;
your red body lined with wax and scratches
and mine lined with skin;

Dear August,
I’m sorry this name never stuck.
It smells of church basements
and you smell like the beach,
like an ocean town twenty years too old.

It’s more of a wish than a name,
a rotating notion that you’re not
a machine.
Thrusting pistons, Cylinders, Gas, Brakes,
metal and rubber things like that.

What if you were to not start,
right here, on this hill
as that AAA truck peels away
at the sight of a used car dealership?

Why do you want to die
so badly?
Is it too mocking
to ask if you need a rest?

Throw me into the landfill.
Metal and rubber and things
crunched up and stationary,
Work must be boring.
The wind must be old.

You must hate the sound of my voice
by now.
Thank you, seats and doors and motor and hood,
thank you
for lasting; for starting one more time.

Sleeping Legs

Of this do we soon regret:
without first
jumping at the chance.

I dreamed I could jump
high as I believed.
My legs are springy.
Not light, not dense, not

I can propel in the
not-wine-like sky
not-tea-like air
And spaces only revealed

Under the watch of my brain,
as my body flies, floats, moves
over roofs, walls, stairs, branches,
But that’s just it:

I believe my legs when awake
Are no different under sleep.
I’m no earth, no bone,
no flesh in my dreams,

But a morphing electric,
A life in infinite phases
or just below,
I am faceless, nameless,

relatively undefined,
an arrow, a logical cat.
And that’s why reality
is a bore.

It sucks all the lives
out of dreaming,
keeps creativity in out skulls,
our legs locked beneath our skin

and static truths, like these legs,
only ignite
behind the soft white jelly
of our balmy eyes.


“We don’t belong there”
My dad admits
“Walking along as if
I owned the place”
But Dad!

When did we stop fitting?
I want to live
both, I think from a rock,
the pond coppery below.
He was scared by a rattlesnake.

“the thing was huge, it stood
and hissed like this!”
His tan hand curled.
I turn on the rock, into leaves.
A deer jolts away.

I just, I just, I am not-
I try to fit both.
black birds warn me, and stop.
Only mosquitoes aren’t picky,

but it really takes a housefly
or a rock dove or a dog
on a leash; we’re not alone.
Chipmunks in the garden,
obese squirrels on the feeder.

I close the door to the off-white house.
My dad is fixing something.
it’s all decay and dust
at some point,
I think.