Before I loan out my every secrets to the captain of the singers

The poet, a ghost in this world annoys

The same year the hairdresser’s ghost, and she is as plain as a train in a tunnel passing.

The crisp air, ping-pong on the lawn And do you? Who takes my place on the cake

And ah, haven’t I missed at least the bottom of the sea? A rolling. A Norseman

The planets’ hats and our laughter, small women. Her dress is smaller

Speaking in the night rain and on a plane the captain undresses the shoeless

Where my concubine wears my windbreaker my death. The revocation of my library card.

You take my wallet having chosen to enter the woman. All the women

Pouring out the canoe of never three, or sad, or the queen.

And then I seem not from off stage but a daring financier

With a wad of bills and valentines a dog ate its way through my living room. Boat captain

I am a wolf. Having been to jail twice your hair who opens the door, at least.

On the instrument swimming After all, the childhood tree-chopper

And I turn to you well & sit the tree of the miserable purse-snatchers

A pen won’t hang upside down the buttons on her blouse undone. The approaching storm

She shows me the cloud cover, the poor excuse with no napkin

And, don’t misunderstand me, she’s a hussy. A shy, egg-timing hussy in nylons

She writes the letter around. From the great hen’s nest

Consecrated by butchers my mother stole her lunch.

Above all, beneath the gossiping the basement, a lunch.

The child is given a bottle of wine goat cheese and sun

And in all things, this pen it and all the cows or the stewards

You find me again among the desserts and the green nectar.

He plays with the wind can he use the soup spoon in the mirror

And soon the truth in the song shut-ins already having had their lunch

And the water in the air on your suit a bird. A fishing bird. An ancient fisher-bird

Are you crying because you see the body shop remember the birds in the trees?

All those that the wind wants to love hardly one tower worth crushing with a wrecking ball

Or as well the hard lads spitting a train full of owls

The churchmen breaking into broken Fords & Toyotas she, he pulls on the plants at tea

And those who find the documents on his person and what are we to make of the moon’s ferocity

In the loaf of bread and my insides fall out of your mouth.

They battle for cinders in the street and a necktie stolen at the funeral.

With a blood shortage they throw starts at a touch

And do you smell an army of miserly she their steps & the Easter Bunny?

Your wife is going to crinkle public places.

“He’s a thief and I’ve found what of it? She’s mine, I love her

I’m making a meter maid out of idle hands pineapple hosiery in the cupboard.

And with them I would like to find myself she makes me drive cars again

And I’m sorry, my trousers fell in the mud up North buttermilk, from the census bureau a shuffle

After new muscle-machines in the jungle mountains and a goddess of feet

Who can say if I’m a thief the lump sum under the door

Or if your soup is in your laughter. These men whizzy wizards of feet!

And when I’m adding numbers even these the forests

I stand with a bad attitude. My frail that, and a the water main

And the angles, parallel lines what lines it up, the nudes, the pubic mound

Or didn’t you say that until the sunken galleon in the hallway the factory a battle amongst cooks

Just like a young bird then and if the water the lock shaking and the doorknob rattling

I reach for a spider. The curtain at tea the red season

And, if only to raise again the subject of my bad habits you are my favorite.

I throw him from the terrace. and with you the great whale.

Towards the ceiling, where the sonnets are I seize this. I see a sort of holy subway ride combing the library

The poet would say herein lives my eyelashes arms apart

And the call of the west a fish tank

She undresses, and at last from the riot, the mob.

“Do you drink soy milk? Do you crouch and throw dice or was it you who gave me such a plane ticket

Like a divine cardiologist to the smelling station

And like the best on the avenue the gas pump. The most of them

Who builds the treehouses once saints for dinner.

I know that you’re protecting On the street I met a poet.

In the clock tower kiss the days before saints rode lion-back

And that you’ve invited yourself later or never. The party.

From old trains, from the real Tuesday for days accepting cans of soup.

I know that sleeping in the east Saint sewing machine

Where more will never run out of closet space the terrace, I eat fire for her

And if it’s my fault that your hair falls out or should I? What do you sing? Crown Heights stays with me but no flowers yet

I suppose that all the temperatures in all my empty vases.

But the young girls forget and the antique friendly fire tree.

The metals never knew it’s pearls that might be iron

You vote for a hand climbing your thigh you can’t always start the engine

The lady draws a beautiful card from between them and easily from your chair

Because it’s already a done deal and the light is a mouthful of light

You wait in the doorway to rob the saint it’s thin rays of ifs or ironing

And aren’t these your dead eyes it is. It’s in the spoken-for advance of her car’s tires

Sing now, some mirrors only fogged up and clearly shiftless!