I can’t tell you how much my lens means,
What it wouldn’t do for equator review.
 
Another great day to sack jazz, as
Primitive mall explains away sapphire.
 
I tend to invite myself to others’ rivers.
When I said our fridge was mastering Hindi,
 
A part of me died—that’s what.
 
 
                                        (o)
 
 
            I don’t acknowledge Norse.
What’s it come to we’re
astonished some songs are
fifteen? And drinking is
indistinguishable from, say.
 
            Thor(eau) does his thing,
Dottie does hers:
Channeling 1950s New
Hampshire.
 
            Dosai, say what:
Sulphuric—Century—Dramatic—
Toehold. Why can’t we be the
throat we divorce.
 
 
                                        (o)
 
 
Dew is asthmatic and yet
I’m still trying to pick it up.
 
I’ve stapled my infancies together.
I tuck in waterfall at night.
 
My only deficit is my only child.
Why can’t I set jungle to vibrate.
 
 
                                        (o)
 
 
It’s the one night I get to feel like a dik-dik.
Voice as trumpet, auction as vision, vision as advisory lore.
 
A mountain’s a robust epistemology to maintain.
Museum itself is its own backlash.
 
Ponds become condos become fresh thinking.
How many Stony Brooks can there be.
 
 
                                        (o)
 
 
Meadow pours into me/vortexmex, then into real me ravine.
If it’s been said around me, it's been said through me.
 
I found my father in No. 12 in F, K.332 – 1. Allegro.
If the premise finds me, I’ll be in the orchard.
 
Erasure only gets me so very far.
I believe in 16 oz. government.
 
 
                                        (o)
 
 
         We say brittle alma mater—
  Hoping to arrive at a catalogue.
 
            We say sunset diet—
Hoping enlargers know their limits.
 
 We say low impact throat clear—
And see harmonic backbone faint.
 
      We say flurry of revenue—
 Expecting our mouths to remain
                    collapsible.
 
       We say slumped over—
    Getting what we need out of
                      pasture.
 
        We say clean break—
 No longer part of the shorthand.
 
 We say they know what they’re
                      doing—
 Refinancing the war-chest-voice.
 
         We say family friends—
 Unwilling to let go of stage right.
 
We say over the jasmine hump—
   We haven’t spoken in years.