Disown
You may “have” sex—
but those round
sink—holes beneath
the off—ramps,
scabbed with whatever
flat, green stuff—
not in your most
nominative
moon—walk.
*
New one called
“Convoy Village.”
Bylaws forbid
visible contrivance:
clotheslines
(like the skeleton)
or crabgrass
dead in long tracks
tipped with green.
Results shall be
unreminiscent.
*
To punch one’s straw
definitely
into the fizz.
Arms of pastries
revolve
in their clear cylinder
slowly.
Space “may be shaped
like a saddle,”
scientists say.
A list may pantomime
focus.
On conditions
so numerous
nothing can begin.
*
“Run down,” they say,
“buildings.”
Wave of morning glory
leaves about to break
over the dropped plastic
bat, the empty shed.
Hard to specify
further.
Whole body
dotted
here and there
Areas of interest,
cross purposes,
eddies
