Sold, a rush of poor thinking,
long days involving backed crossings
and again, supernatural functions of love
and straight lines, day made the last time
cold

                                                    So I said
upon the dark and the rain which
turned a closed room for lack of towers
or the mopping of floors into a blue
field where god pursued the thirsty
hearts of young men finding princes
downing maps of rivers, ‘I was fucking
turbulence’ all aglitter with luxury
and light, taking blame to an alternate
monastery, as if bad thoughts could
be named after a woman

Battalions fled the light, the sun
was not the same or the second
story of a home for all wants, like a dress,
that I listen for balks, cue the waves
stopping short of the restaurant in
the morning when it happens again

                Then there is a hovering, market
conversation: there weren’t hills in the sea
but were that there would a forest of timpani
gardens at the knees of any myth sulking
in a pool, disinfecting the edge of some city
and would that an airplane worked like day,
a factory twelve hours in the making,
folding blankets, come with me,
it’s windy in these countries, my ocean
worth its weight in wood, a sink head,
a felled forest, the edge of the world blue
and orange, poor honesty, it’s not fair!
bathing forms of indolence it’s not right!
night on our backs like incantatory ships,
sheer talk at plain waves, blue brown
folds laying still glistening.