Making ritual is the same as making forms. Youth
gathers along the parapet shore and solicitations by
birds confirm what precise document a woman can be.

At work someone says if you’re getting older
it means you’re not dead.

Looting solved canopies for past incantations
light a commodity and I may have said this already.
It was made to order: the forest of the sea in a field
lit by ordinary means, I had forever this plain desire
for someone to dress me. No it’s a bowl of hair as time,
a trophic cascade of the natural kind, a chain of forged
obligations to strangers, for what.

The off-road vehicle community supports this document
for its fervent tax and sound, I was afraid for the rare
fumes, boxes in a field of colony collapse disorder.1

Katie made a map and sent it,
and it lit day into a blue pearl.
Searching within the function
as to whether believability
trumpets authenticity in the
wilds of thought I knew pictures
would take over language but what
was the role of vapid cleverness
in the choreography of small images?
What did the pages say if no one
read them? The note asserted neighborhood
green space, city views, and every so often
I would remember imagination as a free figure,
first of song and then of supplication. In some
buried parenthetical caption I took home for later
which is generally now if you think of it
when we stay current in the charge of day
beyond the excessive idea of mastery.

                                          To move around the apartment with flag scented candles ablaze in
                                          paper fields or to drop dead without a fuss, we’re ghosts when you
                                          think in millennia.

He reminded me that someone
was in the kitchen with Dinah—I had
wondered who was on the Bima—it
was a happy love in hyacinth streets.
Before the apt gratuity my sister considers
the shape of light and moving furniture
which had suited our conditioned industry
of sleepover (an annual affair) and huffing
pavement to quarantine our sorrow.

                                          Sister shade comes in the form of a synonym for an animal you
                                          thought was an adjective—that is how language performs, as
                                          deactivated listing agent packing up sums of money in the
                                          unfinished basement of your childhood home.

When grown up I may have a table made
to match the measurements of the microwave
I dress as one in the living room, which is also
the kitchen. To spell life means to know what
absence smalls in the pinup of the end waving
hands from its joyride. My parents are alive and
I intend to remember the consequences. I stumble
on a picture of a child-as-cookie eating a cookie and
consternation excuses itself to confess to you that
I distract myself to say something to no one in particular.2