Floating

You said I said
‘We’re floating on a cloud,’
I pinched but the numbness.
Somewhere, an Indian train.
Tears and raisins
scattered the bedsheets.
Nests of blank pages, no lines

Owl Sex

Toothbrush
motion of the owl:
A ruffled fracas of
sepia and sage.

Guesestina or A Dream For M

Fondly, our guests decide to stay,
their looming absence posing as a chore.
Cuddled outside, the itchy frost.
We strike up a flame for them,
beckoning door, hill weathervane away.
Lack of travel not seen as lack of spirit.

I kiss up her leg, that’s the spirit!
Beckoned silk forwent the pew to stay.
Bumbling in the bible hall, the way
after morn, un-preach the chor-
us, pitching at us staccato frost,
our sloppy music a snack for them.

Following, our guests still out in them-
selves, finding no more time for frost.
Hovering over our bodies, a pride of spirits.
Beckon them here, we do to stay.
Cornucopioltergeistic is the chore.
Sanctuary, the color gardenia away.

Not featherwine could pull mine eyes away.
Über tanned, her negative of frost
skin. Thighs in vice with legs to squeeze them.
Holiday not prescient of a chore,
or somnific leash, my own pet spirit.
Atop blue playground slides our daughter stays.

Guests, displaced, now writhing in the frost,
a flound-fish wretch expounds from them,
threatening to husk their lazy bones away.
Never in our kitchen shall they stay,
pessimistic micro-treated spirits,
waiting on our order for broken chores.

City visit dreams made of recycled chores.
She comes inside, to shake hands with them:
the angels, not the guests who went away.
Golden juice, they pour into her spirit.
While the water births from dying frost,
I pour into the place I am to stay.

Out of M’s chore, some shiny guests to stay.
Frosted sun hair, two three four of them,
dancing allgood spirits, we float away.