i think:

i’ll marry a greek, i think
one with a beard of thunder, and eyes
of black oil that slick
over skin, and stick
to the bottom of my shoes. all of my springs
with their eyes of oil
will swim with the nightbirds
and fish, in our soil

token. women.

all of the sun’s one
sudden comes as a bolt would. they’re reaching around
the desk and the wallpaper has closed in
on yours. there’s a price on the newmarket
fingers, and the pubs shut
teeth marks in east end lividity. what
means the ache. we wouldn’t ask if we
were you; or had your belly, or
walk. chuckling buckling
breakfast hips, that slip like
knuckles into fists. manu, now, backs down
on food; there is no need to roast
the word.

last night i dreamt that somebody:

booked me a ferry to Guernsey
booked my flight to the port
and took my hand so i couldn’t write. i asked
for it back. but i couldn’t come back to

one of the few cities with an ‘o’
at the end. most share this
‘ah’. not i

and the tracks allow for reverse
but to drive without purpose-
that’s what i need

all the weak tea starts. blessed days
to want windows to watch out of
not spattered with water
or wind-blown out of
recognition

when the poet enters the poem
home is not where the heart is suspected to
be, but an ant on the tree

it nests in me

folks?

they all say it here. it’s used;
somewhere over raphael-
a burn, baby, first lady of eye

on the eye land
birds desert their parents
olives cough themselves down from bramblewire

beard ignited by the sun
going down. an entire skin roofing,
purple

i’ve asked for her release.
i’ve asked for her release.

L’Isola Gallinara