She was a little bun of leaves
wrapped in a cold afternoon
organized around other buns
bruising her tailbone on a front bumper

while the radio had a baby and the anvils
cried on the hood with their weight
all illness carried away and under a pine's tent
by the body of a deer trotting through its last winter

brittle in the air of death, living

drugs help, nobody plays guitar
every yellow wants a buttock to be smeared on

(the paints impatiently], the wails trapped
bubbling and upwards in the throat,

the pants impatiently come off on slick pianos
the colors are distilled in an eye that once
whirled around three spokes of eye in front of a Hindu head
north colorado's dead

of the purple-haired none bred turtles
and the ordinance was passed through seventy smooth intestines
while a cat watched from a plywood table
leagues under the basketball hoop
and a lamp shined tight as an onion

DECLARATION

If raindrops of soda go down through his cranium
and fuse his neck with the sidewalk

I will go down my alley on a salt road
and bring him a thin hallway
with dry hair on its walls.

If taffy clouds are in his escape mirrors
there will be time on the plate
and a sound in the bottom of the funnel,
light green.

There will be, at the end of a long living chair,
two people (a nonsensical couple) kissing
hard.

DECLARATION 2

There are these in the love, these objects:
a ball of wire stained with blood, now pretty,
now a safe object. And the silver shines
inappropriately, as if preparing itself
for a celebration of the life that coursed
painfully through it, the cells in its interior

and a sheaf of dark black papers
folded so many times their landscape
is a dueling pile of lines, while the faucet runs,

drunkenettes, and the self-stranger, in the floor,
re-constitutes himself for a final victory,
before the earth and the people in the earth
get tired of their solitudes.

For there are these in the love, these people;
these sucked through a burning forcefield
into a clamor of ultrawhite light, and hairless
on the otherside pursuing one another, mating
in stacks of hot grass.

oh, equals in the lips, so finely disguised,
a tall wanting, a petite wandering, two pigeons near
the ice wanting, a desiring wide on the ice
the fire, the brilliant hurting,
who can make a peace cry out with a hurt sword,
the rug, machine gentleman like, the couch split,
the luxuries offered, the rent hurt,
the crawling on the stairs stifled,
the desperation frocked in minutes,

all the commas that skin cannot but have,
a hurt multiplied on porch abysmals,
a depth in summer, of shadows,
near a crumpled playset, a swingset
focused magnetically, on a hand digging red clay
underneath, the skeletons calling

and the flesh on their newish lips, not quite alive