I’m a pipe cleaner.
A drop of moisture on the big nose.
A pushing landscape, indecipherable.
You speak of a very good sort of Englishness.
That world could stand as a mallet.
A one-body god with penis or not.
I want only to admire the grass. The great locks of trees.
That the idea is enough.
My bringing herbs to
hits my ears.
A shredded pinky stream of bass and corrugated paper.
Who is it that actually sees herself?
The heart center of the fragrance
billowing toward its end.
My mother crammed in her room next to her mother.
She was obedient.
She was the method
and voted for the wrong person.
Our sore throats were our throats.
We said to ourselves in our clay structures
we are the
We’ll pull the blue ox back into our barn
where the three kings still kneel.
We cleaned the stable.
We pushed the brush over the beautiful animals.