banana peel world slips from my desk.
a million fruit fly grievances rise
from the air, the only unconserved energy--
the only constant creation, a buzz in my ear.
you think that to clean is to throw away.

but i like to hold my yellow flag streaming
out the yellow window while yellow summer
flits by on blanketwings wide as the sky.
our wagonyears come rolling down the street

kicking up every flavor of copper dust.
you peel sleep from your eyes and everything
takes the shape of the candle flame yawning,
everything falls asleep in the candle-gold of 6am
and wakes in the banana-peel arms of 1pm,

missing the sunrise but never the sun.
we are in the barrel of each other flying down
the cascade of tuesday afternoon, sock-sliding down
banana-peel streets, knowing yellow as a shade of gold

tern, how do i burn half my body
just to return home without crumbling

robin, how do i whistle these lacework trills
above the steel demands of garbage trucks

pigeon, how do i shine like gaspuddle rainbows
without bathing in the street gutters

eagle, how do i fasten my scowl so tightly
that it is not weakened by wind or death

crane, how do i dance on wheatstalk legs
and not bend but to bow graciously

hummingbird, what is the velocity of hunger
i must reach to not be swallowed by the world?

We spend so long revolving
around our own imagined suns.

I cannot trace a perfect ellipse
around anything
with any certainty.

I know that it is there,
I know that it is warm,
but I know too that I spin,
and I spin and I spin and!

Crush it like a powder and
use it in the paint.
Spread it on the streets,
in the sheets, in the chapel where
it will be the infrequent rain
of a leaky roof.

Or toss it up onto the roof
while you wait with open hands
for it to roll back down again.
Give it a name. After a saint.
After a Fate. After a bare
corner of my street.

Walk it down the street
like a dog that woofs
at every duck. Take care
that you feed it and
wash it and wait
as it ****** in the rain.

Wake up and do it all again.
Let it pull off all your sheets
in the night and finger-paint
your walls and goof
off at the table and
insult your great-aunt's hair,

But let no one else dare
scold it but you. Chain
it to a pole by the tire and,
as you cross each street,
glance back for proof
no one's chipped the paint.

Imagine it is the quaint
house with curved iron chairs
and the red red roof
from the catalogue in Spain.
Imagine it is your old street,
its cricket-chorus marching band,

Your mother's "it ain't so bad" refrain
sung like a prayer. Your old street
seen from the roof, the moon in your hand.

even bugs leave smudges
on despicably clean things.

years are live coals,
do not keep in pockets.

the well-earned scab
carries no shame–

even the earth groans
between giant sidewalk cracks.

several trillion hourglasses
broke for this one sand,

and how many more
for the glass.

a grass stain is a miracle,
blood of the sun

holeyness all-revealing:
my heels will glow

with callous kisses
carrying small things
like the world

When I am younger
the doors will open on garden plants
high above my head
and the world, a misty jungle
once again

When I am younger
I will hold the crystal ball
of some fallen marble
stretched out on the living room floor
and make fortunes
for the cat

When I am younger
I will build my castles
of leaves and wooden slats
and every songbird, ant, raccoon
and all their uncles
will be at my banquets
on the low pine tree branch

When I am younger
I will catch the sunlight
in my open hand like falling gold
and release it when the night falls
in the green glow of a firefly
with some television name

When I am younger
I will learn to dry my tears
in the arms of the world
as it sits on the edge of the bed
all-knowing and chestnut-haired

When I am younger
I will knock on the door of your old house
and you will still be there
waiting in the blush
of a late August morning

And when the sun bled o’er the hills,
the moon, she held her breath
and watched as all grew silent, still
to mourn the queenly death.
And as the burning throne she took
from on a lonely height,
I felt her eye upon me look,
a soft and dewy light
that seemed to promise everything
in wisps of pallid fire:
a thousand hopes, now quickening
in shadows of desire.
But all these dreams, they barely keep
for one night in my head;
I wake to find their remnants–heaps
of ashes in my bed.

The days are steps
and life a tunnel,
time cement
that pours in slowly;

with each breath
the quiet struggle
not to turn
and lose the race.

Songs are seasons
still returning,
held in palms
and whispered lowly;

helps the heart
to sail in darkness,
feeds the soul
a bit of grace.

Though I cannot
weep beside you
(mem’ry’s not
to be reached in),

tall smooth statue,
still i see you,
lovely you will
always be;

but I must go
always forward,
fearing time
will pour on me.