***
It’s silly to worry about what really exists.
Set your own parameters.
Turn down one block, trash everywhere, but the wind smells like lilac.
Late Wednesday in bed, I’m terrified to learn Yeats was right.
That makes me nothing but a crumbled piece of grout.
That is how I will be remembered by students of the occult.
Everybody else doesn’t even care that stars exist.
***
The garbage in the can is hotter than the air.
The heat is appalling and we don’t own our apartment.
Humans are really only happy in a 30º Fahrenheit range. And some people are ugly, my wife adds.
Like a tonsure around the city – orange clouds of heat.
Then the accordian stifles its cry.
I am almost nothing, mostly water and air.
***
My head is enormous.
It’s full of raindrops.
I want to relax in a place sealed off from the sky.
Every day Tomaz writes to tell us it’s a new day.
We want to hit the road and eat everything placed before us.
She mailed me a blanket that she would wrap up in, naked.
The corn that grew in my garden that summer was enormous.