I.

I trace you against
the skull
with the old photograph of

age 8 and 7

aloft and angling down some stage, or performance

in
this perforated dome I call home

trace you against
the map impaled to the wall
and locate you amongst the
geographies and heed
its brash distance

shake out its potency
like how my grandfather murders
the brief matchlight

I trace the trajectory
will not pivot to return
or scope rescue

none like this force,
the insufficiency of maps,
the harsh terror of adoration when
like a fruit ripened

will fall to the hand waiting
underneath

II.

    Propel me to where it counts

into the masses transit-worn,

shorn out of the flyblown-dry in amazement
or immense performance of breaking

outside the window
when it rains forever

to Icarus in his blunder,

from the dilated pupil of my father while
   watching television

from point-break of time
  and sense when nothing made one kind word
as salvation

out of the tangle of clouds,
    the skytilt angle where heaven might topple
at one point to scatter my reckoning of a god

from your place of interval

III.

space – where you will it,
when the night shining in,

          far are the noctilucent skies
  place me in the soft ease of beds when
   burial is ideal

make me ****** than light at first glance
    or water upon initial drop

and then in space, where you will it,
    promise-tender, drunk in shy altitudes,

this most biddable machine will spread to make way
    for weight giving in

to assume so small a drop of the pin in the ocean
   or to cannonball – fitting  chamber of a gun,
  
swimming in a mess of no restrictions,
  prepared, contained to carve deep

in the night writhing in with him
  with no need of hands to break point.