Clay Pigeon

When it’s raining it rains

on the telescope too.

My sister’s eye is spiraled. 

Mine shakes loose—a tire twisted

from the body of a car.

It is a siren bucketing light. 

Standing in the diamond district

like a troubling wet stone.

A boy with a bird

in hand. I want what’s easily alive. 

Here is all the water I refuse to drink.

Each bird pulls a pin from the sky.

I call it dog

Where do I hold it
I don’t know the subject
Something muted loosening
The body becoming hammer hammers itself
It could be said to mark duration
It could be said to radiate
Around my employer’s house
Braided whip in a drawer
With some mints
It looked like an event
Or wordless structure
Language being a body
Sound extends through in a current 
Pressing my stomach against the comforter
I feel obvious coterminous with the edge of the drawer
Light slashes the bed slashes the book
A fascination 
With whomever has wronged me
Could indicate good health 
In the midmorning cold
I take myself for a walk around
In my two good shins kicking them out
Total motion

Safe House

There’s a flatness to extremity

how a door produces its vigilance

An originary fear gathered after

An originary harm you cannot remember.

Sally sat hardening on the rock. Softly like a sleeve

Where it lands in my mind

the harm I wish to cause in essence is social

and I enter the stream to access totality picture Mesopotamia

under softly unscrewing lights, under flowered sky

I move dimpled and creased

carry my senses like a bowl no, a bathtub

like something ordinary could hold within its auspices within its excess

when the body has no object it unseams into shreds

which can be recorded becoming property    of the eliciting party

this is a life-affirming practice for the state

gathering its interests medicine and the declarative renewal of vowels

I am guilty and bit into a dull prosthetic impulse

Before time conferred this feeling,

I wore an anklet filling the archway

my senses measured joy You had yet to invent me