Monday, June 15, 2015


The wounds of soldiers are imprinted
on me.  I am not like them.
I must stay behind to take
advice from women, then plot
with twitching hands a clear head
to transport parks that peak in the eyes
past the police, to soar without breaking
and without leaving the ground
sparkle, without winking out
to be climbed in splendor for ages
as the jeweled owls and the breasts and eyes of women
shimmer on its surface and feed
the hands of the climber
while telephone elephant ears
swivel from carts at the top
painted and wobbling in track magnetism
roadfish anointed to bellow soundless
roadfish anointed on this roof to point back to the ocean
roadfish who is a non-wanderer
because the whole world keeps wandering through him
staked to the wall, no longer gasping
roadfish, of plastic eyes, is still
roadfish of your intestinal territory
king of the hour of your lips
when you speak through his unrecruited soul.

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