“All the delights of the earth”

We.

Sit, laying our hands like wire.
On the table.

Wood of the moon
to touch your head.

* * *

The moon looks good on the table.
It is a holster.
You are holding it.

Your head is balled on your elbows.
And screwed through your hands.

* * *


The sun is put into a yellow edge.

They bring breads’ smelling
so forth, the table that is a fold
with two plates.

And the moon, the rust.
The rust of waited on
talk.

* * *

Your head.
And hands.

In the position of finding out
so to speak.

“We are eaters”

They bring on
pink shanks and spinach
artichokes and then
creme

* * *

Bitter Dogbane at dusk.

Apo, meaning “away from.”

Some of the time
wind is it, filling the rows,

of rows of pink and white.

In drifts shadows on
the chaparral.

I push my hand on you
and my other one.

* * *

No, on.

The sight of us going
underneath the road

The bats. Before anything
it sounds like a lot,
remote flipping.

* * *

Their tails
are split their legs are
tick-tick btw their
dark little tents
are torn and smell
so distinctive