In this book birds are taught their flying
by that which would make them fall
were they not to fly as had been taught.

In the midst of winter, where moonlight carves
stillness into the shape of hills, there is
a cabin feeding smoke to the low-hanging sky,

Harsh orange, dull burn
of realization.

My mother was glamorous in a way I knew I 
never would be. Velvet belt buckle. Mascara 
lash. Miniature crimson lipstick living in the 

Let us console you. 
Music’s the answer. 
Of course, we’re caught 

Now I’m an archivist. Indexer of everywhere 
I have ever been. Of every ­moment I stood 
there and there. Of where I was when I was 

God’s nose-end,
White nothing tower,
White-bearded, socketed face.

Night is when I give you new clothes.

Little liquor-drink umbrellas drowse
At the margin of the mouth hole,
The moon eye, an open coronal

That the wound had never been
its vast geography, red terrain forming