Too deep inside it, too
difficult to spell
it out.

Now, I
get a good

(got it like it likes
to get got,

on the town)

to give back
for good,

freely talking
about all
of what is

from me.

Will give it to myself,
to me,

‘all of me’.

A given giver
is what I am,

and always

If I Were

only a dripping drop:


hidden tincture under
level-ground topsoil,
of aqua-collective

(Then I)
might crane my gaze
heavensward, lick
the conifer tips
weighing nebulous future
projects (hindsight),
pacify juvenile hymnals
at occasion;

elected in pugnacity,
proffering play-time
counter-arguments up against
their known creator,
to be a best illegible moniker,

past unblemished,
a streak of behavior;

If I were
(only a dripping drop).

If I were
only a puffing pool:

pooling translucent biomorphisms,

Miro-esque, sinking, sunk
and a risen participation
about a series—

of trigonometric altercations;

if then afloat/then unencumbered,
sudden, unevening, atemporal,
descending and preternatural–
darkly liquefied,

hollowing humming earthen dirges
in transit, bellows our
yodeled contrapuntals
sounding off to
the human drum,

but for Lorca’s
language-endowed gekkos
a wily brass
elongation and a dark
encrusting bark;

If I were
(only a puffing pool).

Angie’s Face

Resting curve-perched,
land-measuring ideas
of concavity, threshold—

fisherman’s flap-cap looped below
tight flesh, sunborn,
haloing reusable a neighborhood alias:

Our prime ordinal, or (you must)
the indivisble monad, Leibniz-like, a frac-
turing-auto-dialect culled to a
littering aesthetician’s kettle
mad imagination,

settled down atop a lesser infinity—her
behemoth non-economy’s
tea-coated environs: a reified,
detrita, stained.