A Ten Minute Treatise On My Face

my face does
little
and peacefully
pushes air around

it catalogues the moments

a jar full of seasons
cracks

then busts and hangs
from a dry July branch


it is a smile


there are only
so many ways
an egg can taste bitter

the shell, for example

my face does
little to embalm
a minute

it only opens

a yearn for your flavor

How Big The Ocean, 2nd Edit.

at night
he oceans
among tense fabrics
scraps of home


hook skin
yet ooze so sweet


they become
blooms expiring





































some home
evolves,

plaits of days
braid lonely luster



plates of food
gesture back

colors behind them

smearing, smiling
missives



lovers knuckles
cloudy violet



































He, or any man
any stupid century

smell permeates
expanses,
seas



their membranes

bloat and fever



























walking into
three-legged memory
is every day

when bells clang
it’s the charm of other shores


I ocean

in waking
unbound

drifting
ancient as continents

through morning’s resplendent rooms











































all unmaking
knows

corrosion’s grope,

memory
is being vertical

is gone times

is shores of houses

drifting in
breath bells
oceans