Man acts as an antenna for the sun

and then: a trout in the milk,

men who wear kilts after darkness.

Build a bottle of fish with a few dried figs.

Dear Shadow,

when did I become that person?

I mean one who says "plastic glucose"

without wondering what

rotten-sweet is? The one who teenagers

represent? There's a room in your breath

I crawl into, eating the wallpaper's yellow,

looking out for the man on the stairs,

his knife in hand, poise incarnate.

I am your minimum envelope,

your string between tin cans and

cannot stop the talk between us.

 

In Berlin, they lay buildings on concrete

slabs that look straight back at us.

The windows of the soul seek to err

on the side of humanity. Put a piece of glass

between us for less resistance.

Invite rococo scrawl in heated breath upon it.

The moon appears in a cinched waist.

Stand penance atop her curvature's axis,

above a hill where headstones claw up

through the clouds, pulling their fibers

into blankets across us.

 

The sleet and silver smiles loom gauze-thin.

We slip from a reel of translation back

into how we cater to loneliness,

how we move our mouths and mouth

our meals, engorging entrails where

even foodstuffs give off energies.

I am that uncontrollable,

fear in a mesh of moonrock's lapis soup.

We demons are in love and afoot.

As in the primordial diary, time will come

to take the hem in, tether the ether

that dreams become from, and examine

our ankles as the sugar washes over,

disappearing. As with everything,

that's the body he works on. She also

knows honey lasts best in the future.