as above

Year after year they celebrate the death of the Sun,
but here in the mountains people behave like wine corks
and sleep with the doors ajar. They are beautiful.
Antique turntables, hairdresser sinks, gadgets
that can help to avoid your friends and relatives
in the hereafter are sold by the roadside.
No, I don’t get it. The monks dive into the lakes
with their heads left on the shores talking
of the advantages of Martian IP addresses.
Alas, I forgot my swimming trunks in Venice.

roofs

among dead trees and
sleeping winds boxed animals
make silence out
of human fibs (long life is
terrifying but it can be
everlasting) widowed eagles
get rid of the wings
dropping them on the roofs

ghost

An owl carries a prairie dog to deluded flowers
that can’t name the colors they are made of,
carries over the wings of butterflies and herons
and blackbirds and pigeons hidden by infants
under the strollers with pleats and petals of dust.
The loafers of the valley liberate numbers
from the sequence, gaps from the void,
plants from the soil, reciting hymns to the Jolly Cronus.
The only kick scooter they had in town
has been sold for a song to a ghost.

sand

Ferris wheels had been buried in the mountain lakes
One by one, like stars in a shallow sky.

The surfeit of mycological allusions in the Bible,
Said God, has been destroying me bit by bit.

Children used to count grains of sand
On anonymous planets, then got bored
And forgot about it.

jar

The climate here requires losing wings and fins
Walking away free of spaceships mosquitoes
Ping pong balls and the smell of seafood
The inside of a manifested deity’s garment
Does it remind you of the sky you saw once
Being two years old
Are you still keeping it stinking of disappeared stars
In a mason jar

{from the comments on a}