The Book of Things
for Ales Steger
Tuck this whisper in a drawer labeled comfort.
Lock it with drunk, ecstatic beauty:
Your face close enough to mine for a photograph.
Your breath hollow enough to mimic my own.
for Brian Foley
What we say to say
I want you to be madly loved.
It’s just several freckles
on fire. They’re just burning
away to ash.
Some will be saved
in a folio marked “justice.”
Some will fold into one
another becoming skin.
Truth: there is a story
devoted to hurt on the line.
Truth: We will read it later.
There’s something sweet about a muddled voice
echoing across a single ice cube.
This sounds like something
my mother a poem would say.
This sort of straight-grained
timbre mauls me today.
We turn pale over manuscripts sleep has faded & sponged clean of Ash.
—Andre Breton / Philippe Soupault
language is the moon’s side of the sun (that star)
pushed in lunar distances avoiding
any real knowledge of time
One simple method is to hold
the hand above the horizon with the arm (stretched out).
through the hand’s palm ash is circular breath
the construction is imaginary and tart like stars
The width of the little finger is an angle just over a star
(horizon) and can be used to estimate the elevation of the sun
Ash pleas to be locked in an oak tree
keyed within a star’s pleas
I would have been wood oh so long ago