This is not a planetarium. Not even
a dissolution of expiration dates. My people
eat both small and large intestines, and
I respect anyone in touch with their rage.
I question a dream from the inside
(everything I do is to be remembered).
Anyway, only language can interrupt
conviction, divorce from the tide.
It’s been a long time now but it’s easy
to list the things I am not: my name,
the hair on my arm, difficult to delight.
We call autumn here very early spring.
Wishing is about release in every heat:
petal off, lantern up, lash away, salt over.
Cities keep running out of grave space,
and teachers have to guard like athletes.
And since no one is listening, I might
as well say that peeing in my sleep—
it was a way of preserving integrity. Of
knowing it is my femurs I can recognize.
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