a wasp drops into jesus.

Anything you do to my mother
you do
to my mother.

Eclipse, the painter’s toothache.
My uncle

cuts hair wants to go to space and says

Nothing ever became art that had even only
once
ruined
the hand.

Hell had already a garden.

All we see
we’ve watched.

a color
terrified
of waiting
mistaken
for the color
of waiting

The people started naming their bodies

Birth never gets its person. The title of this poem was once Babies no one can lift and the churches that hide them. I keep thinking of that flood, and how it had to have killed children blissed out on breathing and how it had to have betrayed those animals drunk on a quieter water. Ah drink, ah brothers, a toast: To the life I spent on my impossible disappearance. A thought everyone will end up having is god watched me die the longest. They don’t’ have a sister. A comb with her hair.

Weirdly gentle pictures of my sons

Found by a woman so strange
She strangely

Cannot die
From being

Who is the angel for the angel of death

We are pain’s first memory

They were alive
when he left

A man kissing a man behind the ear
behind a tree
no god made

A thumbprint above the front door
of the house of a hand
surgeon’s bread
making child

The frozen pea
in angel’s wrist