i am the someone worth
into short creeks:
breaded. axes are
mayflowers out of the water. petunias
are ghost ships: they are triremes out of war.
and in the breath of light i
pour coins like shoveled sand and take
of good-day sunshine. with me you will find
and vapor scraps
heavy night, marsh-stinking and
and now at bedtime, these fan blades are
astral soups cantankerous and deceitful as jellied wind.
once a convenient sun becomes familiar,
a mind that is
none of mine is coughing up opiates, strategizing
enough not to imagine.