you send me sheet music,
i juggle jargon back.
i parse you all wrong,
while you squint
and rub your temples
at all the dead languages
falling out of me.

A man told me about a woman
who lives in the desert,
eats only locusts,
honey,
and whatever's
bad in you.

Carry her to a nearby
nexus,
under certain stars,
and she will whisper
things
that only foxes
know.

She has a website,
and all proceeds
go to the
truth.

I'm at the point in summer
where the heat doesn't hate me,
but bullies at my being,
like a hungry cat
or pop song,
will not go away
until I love it
like a brother.

Dying artists nurse
on youth, beauty,
and foreign cities.

They think that
making marble
is their gift,
and not simply
the belch
of their overfed
souls.

I'd like to learn
the names
of trees
and bugs,
so I can have
new words
for the place
I always am.

I found
socks
and poems,
a cat,
found
get-well cards,
under my bed.

If knocks on doors
frighten you,
think of the courage
it takes
to knock.