EIGHT SHORT POEMS WRITTEN JULY 1ST, 2021 1 The fruit swells in a classical style. Divine is the pen. I wish upon lakesides foreboding in the silt, the roots of the thing third from dirt. Legs stream through pathless grooves. Dogs run like horses because there are none. While my strings hesitate to bring motion. Clinging to my last curdled dream. 2 Look at all this beauty, half-love. I am a man of no mountains. The horizon & equator stab me at di erent points. I bleed beyond their suns. 3 A ercer moon broadcasts its face, slow rain reviving the leaves. Androgyny circles me like a vulture. When they nd me, I clutch my luck, cherishing dogeared pieces of life. A hatchet soars, making light of molecular bursts. 4 The writing of the poems is a fatherly deal. Full-contact. The temper rolls out on some unsuspecting verge. I complicate a circle, linking chains. The rest is nonviolence. 5 I bare my love like rings from ngers, unsurvivable wishes made by veins. A cold hand cools the sweat, & this is when living, so why are we sick? 6 Why is the mirror, the mirror, a closed, black door where startings begin if nothing, where I cave in contact with the gathered cells of self? 7 Go cry. Go heave. Go breathe. Make purposeful the happiness of accidents. The rain is cannonballs of hydro-oxygen. Go cling to obsessional poetry like a rhyming stain. 8 If you were my golden age. If you were my brass ring. If the story was as straight as a laundry line. Our bodies would deserve no world but each other. Our minds, a sanity of midnight, even though it cannot save us.