When the tongue in my mouth
Gave reasons for our time here. Directly
Into the retinas of my kneeling
Eyes. My jaw contains every autumn-shaped train.
My oven is full of these clarities: the doorknobs
Reflecting evil role models
And the jail of my own head’s liquor, land and recipes for the shapes
Of names that are the scars from clock’s hour hands
In the stars’ collective address until
Their pain is sky. Together like rain,
Or an anthill near a capsized ant.
The core of east clips the wings of apes,
On parade or on island shore’s rawest altitude.
