The province of motion
is a pitiful act. Divest
the volume, skip the intro,
make maps out of your hellos.
Outtake your obeisance!
You have these miraculous
feathers in your throat.
You would like me to coax her
if soot were the probable cause.
Scope the pond for mind-over-leaf.
Mortician says: it will be a willful
display, for the skin is liver-marked.
Spotted among the drips, the crowless feet.
Bank left over the city. There's a stadium.
There you are dressed in pink, a lightning
robbed of its equation, foreground.
I have nonchalance as cover-up, no margin
for error, a felony in the plush peach
sans lips as my only ripe offering.
Beyond the vocal register, it is my sun
the one that rolls its Rs and expects
me to be frightened lifts its dress.
A tar roof, utterly sky. Constellatory.
She is sister, the younger, waif one.
The megaphone is shofar dipped in leg wax.
Et lux begins a descent, you can make it.
The net counts on her. Applause is
the dry laundry of rush hour.