is there maybe
a way
to come back
from my living

a rare
disorder
wrapped
in a cigarette

safe
sad

a skin cell
dead
to the face
of god
an angel

designed
by an angel
a baby
walking

too early
an egg
cracked
in a star
please

can we put
in our arms, that

(something small
(that walked

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.

The mouth is the only wound denied entry into paradise. Each eye beats birthmark to the body. The angels find us, forget. A tooth like a ghost growing in a fog bathes itself in a window. Bombs, miss. Meat into dust, that ****** hoax. All but a pair of creatures know the truth. God taken by two kids who can’t move.

film 6

The face of god trapped in a scratch on a whale’s eye. A mother’s mouth shaped to shrink the cigarette’s brain. Ice that heals the *** lives of record collectors dying in Ohio. My unfollowed life of absolute distraction. A star above it that is a ghost branded by a moth. The spotlight that moves the abuse at last the spotlight

for Andrei Tarkovsky

It takes three ghosts to end the present. Outside it smells like not touching you. I don’t go anywhere without my bomb. There’s no place on earth on earth. I don’t take photographs I can look at. My body has never been a body to your quieter mother. I drink myself into walking. Three ghosts eat the mouth of an angel from the back of the very spider that called god with a handprint into hand’s only dream. There a tooth, and trainsets. Inside the movie there are two rules. We’re alone. You can’t miss it. Don’t look at photographs that answer to image.

gesture 4

Lakes laze through the last showing of the angel’s invisible shadow. Fire thinks itself unburned. Thunder hears a slow thing. I don’t want this to start. Lure the image out of god. A ripped-up squirrel at the end of the world.

I scroll
To where my son
Isn’t dead

Or past
Or past

Eating fast food syncs nostalgia to the heart of grief. You can’t hit a deer that doesn’t get out of the way. I thought at first I’d lost my grandparents, my aunt, my my. But then they lost me. Dear afterlife, here is the moon. I order online suicide and longing then wait for a song about drinking in a haunted house to end. We’ve never met and I don’t know how much to miss you. Everything god touches god didn’t make. There are bird bones unbroken in the breadmaker’s mouth. If it’s a bathroom machine and not just a bathroom, you can stand in there handing out slow cigarettes to people who can’t look at you. Angels knew there’d be children, sure. Detailed children betray us all. Stop loving my son. Take a miracle away from a photograph. Had those two left the garden with everyone else, imagine. Oh what we wouldn’t need.

Know, unreachable
scar,  

the dress
rehearsals
for touch
run late

Microscope.
Endless child. Ghost
at the water fountain.

There are so many ways to drink and so many paths to your uncle sleeping in the second to last car on earth. Echo trails off to become a widowed expert on the reinterpreted dreams of its unmade phone. Eels translate for lightning. Children injure themselves in one vehicle accidents. In their small lives I hope their presence has understood an immoveable god. You keep a little water in the lungs of the doll.

Kids toss an egg as high as they can

Run, or don’t