November

the women in trousers
they are occupied         their minds       with their work

not fluttering
leaves trail
forward and down
from a male tree named “sycamore”

to relocate the refuse
one flexes the tool deep in the waste
a gathering noise, like glass
shaken in a silver bottle

constructing the towers taller
heavy squirrels implicate leaves     into a nest
bending the rods they lean upon
the babies born blind inside
gaining vision when they walk

I give my violence to the piles
sort of ugly    a bit mean
I’ve been told
I was born this way and will never change

the falling presence
in the chest of the tree
the muscle mumbles
a squeak I cannot hear

smaller than the liver
the heart is a folded pocket
when opened
becoming a wide sheet
of nerves, doubt and pain

Abalone

When we arrived it was already wet.  dogs barking
at its skeleton. they were not hungry for meat
milk inside everything there.  inside coffee inside cake

it was the birthday of a 30 year old though 
she resembled a child and dressed in men’s clothing
“love me” the dogs spoke to each other without noise
and without their faces

everyday two showers over the sound of dogs screaming. mute
shampoo bottles eek out a squeak when held down
and pressed.  “sit with papa” she pretended to be my father.
I sat beside her. Our thighs brushing.  lightning
and then thunder

shells surrounded by twisted wire dangling from my ears

the creature had fled to a larger pocket. hidden
in sand. the craftsman found her old dress
and gilded it. the dress was derivative but flattering. eggshell white with grey trim
pink underneath

my friend looks at my face 
“you have a nice face” 

numerously I am myself.  I spit when I talk

Mercy

should abeyance be annoyance
readiness in a clean shirt
there is a whine
crimping the corner of the throat

sheep position themselves still
near the netting not flopping
like fish, they will silence

 the room door we enter
mother, a grainery we slip into
her feeling around the oats of honor

for a foundry, a second feeling
I was alone but without meaning 
to be

without money my tools became hands
building bags for sourdough bread
in Frisco, I stuck the label
on the widest end to indicate flavor
I wrote the name of the recipe 
on the receipt

people told me I was beautiful at the
market. knowing I knew the price
we stood in conversation without direct connection
we touched with minds and words as though
they were sharp corners to be peaked over

the wheat stalks fallow turning wet
the rain appeared rushed by wind to our standing
the dogs greet me in boots like boats
their owners with a tightness of tenor

and a handful of leash. I transitioned
the plastic cover to close
mildew arrives the nostril
must change its use