like snowy fungus. I breathe
an air that has slept

I have walked
through a cold house. I do not
know these walls; I do not want
to rest in these chairs.
There is ice here...I see
the glistening crystals forming
on the backsides of the furniture
like snowy fungus. I breathe
an air that has slept on a dry
and unfamiliar tongue.
There are people in this house;
they lie beneath their beds

Outside, everything dissolves toward the west;
the sun pulls the blanket of horizon
over its own incandescent face.
Night begins to coil around my skinny legs;
my pupils leak their paint.
Is there a decision to be made, or
anything to initiate? The sun has left
its stars behind like beautiful bastard children.
Do I have another hemisphere to kiss? Day has tired
of the land; I have not. But I know how she wants me__
tucked within a pretty box, gift-wrapped,
without shoes but a suit someone else chose for me.
She calls to me through the murmur
of rippled waters and the whisper of stones.
She sings; her voice gently blows me over.
Each delicate note sticks to my eyelashes,
and they are weighed down. I am lulled.
I am lulled.

Somewhere is a tree, red-leaved,
tasting the private air of morning.
Its branches drip their brown streams
across the linen of an overcast day.
Its pale rooty tongues lap up the dirt,
the quiet, black blood; leaves breathe like
many tiny lungs dangling. You cannot see me
against the white sky. I kiss the belly
of the soil; the roots are tangled in my hair.