This poem blows


so as to make a building
creak. So as to make
a building sway and maybe break.


A few twigs in the grass that I thought
could be rungs for your ladder:
Here. Words in the mouth
in the way that the mouth
is a thief.


I kneel in prim light
and in giant, in the dumbest of what
I won’t say. Oh,
and I lied before
about being provided for:
I often up and greet
the day with smears of egg.