I don’t remember exactly how long he waited
but after we moved to Michigan he followed
and almost everyday he watched me cut, plane, sand,
nail, stain, and finish every single piece, in his wool suits,
until I had an urn.

The boy tries to draw his mother now –
busying the drones in her checkered gardening apparels.
He desires to draw it in toto, all –
the nectar, aromas, manures, sweating, in the milieus
his father screaming, “Fuck you!”

Dignity, Beauty and Hope sang.
But when I woke they shattered
Like crystal mosaics of church saints.

Soon, like a trumpet, the sun
Began the chorus of sparrows
And the shouts of flowers.

My plan is to enchant the moon with a fabulous

array of art. I can’t imagine viewing a masterpiece

without feeling a singular buzz. That’s my edge.

The taste of depression wakes up my tongue.
I wipe the corners of my mouth, sniff
my hand, the rancid, toothsome, brine hints
from my skin.

Today’s totals were eleven for the left arm
and nine for the right, though one of those donors
choosing the right arm found out that they
were not successful in drawing any of his blood
from that arm

When I steal, I steal big.
I steal the spring
And the birth of flowers.
I capture the giving,
A child’s crush—
Innocent and generous.

Reckless as a clever symphony
designed by the clash of wind and sun
he dances immobile, dazzling,
on this fixture of frail smoke.

He orders himself a Mexican scramble on tortillas with black beans with a side of bacon, toast and homefries and a can of warm cocacola.

She was sitting in the bathroom
On a little pink carpet
Staring at the toilette water
Her delicate chin
Resting on the toilette bowl
Her right hand
Holding her sculpted long blonde hair