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The sea, now full
of cannibal
jellies, blue
if the sky says so
UNQUOTE
Take this cup away from me
with its hints
of ammonia and dill,
oak or corrosion.
Who knows, really?
What might ammonia taste like
to a different person?
Roll that question
around on your tongue.
You’ve heard it before
or something like it.
The familiar is enormous!
Red-shifted.
I’m happy to think
of this deep sleep—
“the sleep of the dead”—
as a guilty pleasure
“I” am
“getting away”
“with”
PINOCCHIO
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire
TOUCHED
More than a fistful
of stubby green fingers
pushing up through gravel.
And blades, hearts, clubs
cut fine figures too.
Each shape particular
and pushy.
Each a would-be
template,
I say.
Pick me.
I’m with the deranged.
Something’s very wrong.
There are masks
in offices.
Machines run the banks
and the power company.
If you aren’t my mother
or my son,
who are you?
And if you are,
why don’t you know me?
FORESIGHT
1
The way we gather
at the window, pointing
with funereal awe
to this thing
that isn’t one of us—
a doe
nibbling the lawn.
2
Reflections
staggered by ripples
at the feet
of quaint buildings
in paintings
on hotel-chain walls.
CLIP ART
Stroking her cheek,
I’m drawing
mirror image arcs
in the baby’s brain—
closed parentheses
left hanging.
Our topiary space.
PROMOTION
Then the evening
and the morning
were the last day.
But wasn’t I promoted
after I named everything?
In cartoons, each
impulse
