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

sacrifice 3

God
a mere
flare
Creation’s
signal
to Eden
of a typo
in its dark
message
Leave
under a corpse
of light no
cried out
thing

Time thought there’d be fewer of us

Dear Ethel Cain

A microwave in a wellness center is left alone long enough to miss a bible. Fate does its work early. Babies make loss fun again. I try with my gut health to stop time. Angels, born on, turn off.

god
wants
nothing

the enhanced sameness of being alone. the last name of a circle. suicide has done its homework. pretend you’re the someone pretends to be you.

An arm cast
in a long
heaven
raises
not from birth
a hand

100 bodies
learn to count

The mirror remains an unfaithful marker
of those Ohioans
presently addicted
to the speedy
sameness
of decay

Re-hungered

a needle
boils
its nearness
to the doll’s
backbone

Dear Ethel Cain

somehow for both Aria Aber and Franz Wright it’s hard to have good brothers I can’t go a week without drinking because the week is from 1983 touch resurrects itself how lonely sleep is named after sleep my eyes fight over two memories a line of ants carry a lightbulb to god I pray in a bullet to a melancholy bee don’t be afraid there in no nowlife

You've been killed and they are eating
the body of your son.

What time
can do
with a crumb.

designed lightning designed a pair of scissors from something sleeping in the thigh sobbing on the right side of god

designed sound designed a voice for god as a way for animals to tell jokes

unburn
the angels

it’s my year to add a brother

designed these ******* designed

designed a machine designed a map to cover with cornfields the umbilical cord koans of data abandonment

designed sleep designed restraint blue

designed blue

designed my brothers designed they are white

designed skin designed pressing on prayer with the oyster bruise of a fingernail starved in a mirror by the invisible disciples of nakedness

designed death death I did this for

Dear Ethel Cain

I might be dying. It is rude to care for oneself when your kids make from children bombs that bomb. It’s not hard to be drunk. My blue mother lives on motherhood while worshiping in miniature the sleep of the lonely bear bought by our most eccentric celebrity. I’m not okay. I have to drive to work when at home my son is sick and my other sons aren’t. If I die, people will stop looking at me right away. My brothers aren’t on their knees with this. Dear star my abusers used puppies to touch my blood in black and white. You can’t deport a witch. A miracle. My nakedness shrinks death with a folk song about angels protesting permanence. The lie reached heaven and that dude set himself on fire to burn god with Palestine. Jesus rose but the rest kept their graves on earth. The minotaur fell out of love with a horse. Lightning left the moon to think on thunder. Lightning left the moon to think on thunder.

Blink
And you'll miss

A machine in the ghosted and are these yes the agreed upon animals. Error prone infant, my mistake is gone forever. My favorite action movie is classism and ours is a silent one about god forgetting to save her progress. I thought it would be the eating that would be hard to devour. Obsession is a border. Sometimes when I babysit apocalypse you die behind death's back.

Eden created time so Eve could end god’s suffering. I only worry about my son’s death because I can’t leave his dying to others. That’s the alcohol being silent. Watching is just seeing a cyclops cry. **** that kid, is what you’re saying. Skin is the real winner. The bone has a bone’s name.

My son stops biting.
Our teeth
have no thoughts.

designed I designed a thumb and with it started the scarecrow’s collapsed church of celibacy

designed my doglike creature designed for a deer a memory using only those sounds taught to god by cars driven at night by blow-up dolls mourning the pink life of mimes

designed we designed a drunkenness that could breathe for a hole and the hole filled us with crickets and teeth

designed the cricket designed a classic hummingbird too stunned by the non-miracle of beast to leave the pecked eye of christ for the prayer of stillness darkened by a specifically timeworn crow done with being three times the size of god

designed god designed the same creatures as god

I had my honeyed life

designed my weakest son designed, ah

designed my passing designed passage through tapeworm’s nightmare of permanent stars

designed this poem designed the idea that a cricket could leave something in the future and get it back

tattoo
a wasp
its father

The present is the language god uses to tell the future there’s no present.

To swim is to let John the Baptist draw on your body.

Touch is the hand’s trapdoor.

You put your body
in which
day

sacrifice 7

I want all hounds to sleep through their death. I hate grief, but not for the reason you think. I am less weird.