The nightsky holds me in its mouth
like a Kingfisher grasping a minnow.
I pull down the stars & staple them

to these walls. I will plant every one
of these sparkling diamonds,
like a milky-blurred background

in a black-and-white film,
into the overpopulated strangeness
of autumnlong quieted roots.

My hands like tentacles swipe
over the land of the season
as if I were Clockwork

flying out of an old diagram, ink-blotted
sumptuousness, Ciurlionis-like
greased color; an overloaded treasury

of conjoined voices. & the Truth is:
I view myself as a young boy
within a souvenir snowglobe;

the needlework as solid as premature
speech. Childhood is a fishbone
in the mouth of an animal.

I have abruptly left myself in my
own mind, stumbling in place as if
I have something to say but unable

to be as urgent as other poets.
I spew certain memories, their delicacies
invigorating interpretation.

Your particles still remain within
my inward valley; secret eyes, ripe,
like mail-persons reading postcards

before delivering them into the
fatigued mouths of mailboxes.
Memories, with age, are often trimmed

tinier & tinier. A memory
is a peephole, a visible tongue "airing out"
attempting to land someplace

the way a bat inhabits a geography
by sense of Feel. I recall the out-of-body
experience as a child, without thick description,

as I hovered from the window, & then
brought back into "place"---a barely visible
individual standing at the foot of my bed

glaring at me the way a familiar spirit
may create disruptions & bountiful messes
within the orbiting realms of a home.

My meditative spaces need no redemption;
wings of every meaning, sonicspeech
on the tip of my tongue aching for

a "second before," the way a tear
seemingly moves in slow motion,
like resin seeping from a Pine,

like I, thinking of you
in this utter nighttime silence. 



Cut the motion picture at mid-reel
so that I can swallow the void.
I am hearing sounds coming out

of the angry cat's mouth that I have
never heard before.
A smile simply "seemed."

Suppose we
bind ourselves together
preening the wind into our tiny wings.

I think of you like a song
that is continually upon my lips.
This is not a poem about a film,

this is a film about a poem
promoting its production in textual-form.
You, the sweet satyrian,

vineflowers of my day.
The soundtrack begins like a grunt--
the way one may grimace at a pawn shop:

one's gold-value sopped
by the oppression
of an inflated economy.

Our song is ambient, dear. I move
into a reflection, filling the holes
of every salty stupor.

She's staring holes through me,
sterling pearls hidden in the throat
of the clamped oyster shell--

"Music's only secret is silence"
& the ocean's silence is Music,
or a woman wearing stilettos;

the echoes filling every hallway.
I am illuminatingly observant
when it comes to my surroundings,

like not stepping into puddles
when they reflect a sky
but stepping into them

when they reflect the face
of a person: a splash, an uproar,
sassy ripples ripening one's composition.