by Brian McCloskey
If a song is done really well, the trick works. But wipe a young Corsican, my companion. Military dictators would laugh at extraordinary ceramics. My keyhole blows a gale. The sword has broken over this head. I will spend my days suspended in air. What did his crow sound like? Many girls hear it when they are sleeping. I help carry air from place to place. Lucky the bell—still full and deep of throat. They were right when they said I should have stuck with the monkeys. It's not like I could ever go back to being Brian. Rods, before the unclean. And the plums have mutated and they've got beaks. The woman is not ideal but has two knees. You're the stupid compare essence of vulgarity. Pain makes me wish for thicker skin. A first kiss can occur anywhere. It will look as though I am flying into myself. Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow. Sculpting each tree to fit your ghostly form. I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering along. What I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows. Another arrives later with more fireworks and convinces him to wait until night. To reach out into its own vanishing. But like crow I collect the shine of anything beautiful I can find. It doesn't really matter if the piano was really there all along or not! Something is always burning inside of you; it is not terrible to burn. But apparently the two young peach trees were not enough for him. So you can watch me watch uplifted snow.