A city in my heart that closes.
Many people leave through my fingertips.
I watch TV.
“I can fix him,” says a girl who is worse.
I’ve gained weight.
“Do my pecs look like boobs?” I ask you.
“No.” You’re blunt about it.
I eat the whole steak.
An electricity of birds. Death wing.
I’ll carry myself around for centuries.
My young nephew finds an old box of photos.
With old photos of me.
He wants to know who the girl is.
He’s decided she’s dead.
I’ve found many different ways to say hello.
That’s what matters.
Flowers and trees and hills.
Stuck inside my armpit.
A mushroom next to my right foot.
With cold rain pelting my back.
“You need to trim your beard.
It’s getting in my mouth when we kiss,” you say.
I’m in the seal of the universe.
A weird abundance I rest on.
Geese. Herons. Ducks. Snake bird.
I go on a walk with my nephew.
A black hawk flies overhead.
“Army mens flies helicopters and their hobbies is painting,” he says.
Yes, completely.
And pond full and brimming over and happy.
It’s all right being nervous.
My forehead large and unwieldy.
It’s taken a long time.
Coming here.
You give me my weekly shot.
Water bends around shapes.
Dependable as a log cabin.
The upper torso. The lower torso.
Dissolving blockages.
Nakedness. My heart’s own hand.
Very simply.
Letting the dog outside.