Within the minute      where I am asked      to father my brother     who has cartwheeled
through a hall             of hooks          for years      my soul               is an anchovy
                     trapped in a burr           I point everywhere  like a star             and say
this is the sauce of gloom                   look         look          gawk at these roots
gnat hawks swarming        in infinity patterns         we are just like these ringhals
           never paying for shit      or grieving
                                                                            grief      is a father’s work       I say
how it divides the world         into dead bells              slow as moss
when I am skiing      on the surface of a river of pearls    grief is the horse
that dies        in my path        he says           in his own language    are you bowlegged
    as in limbo      are you holding back      a barber’s carnage       or do you just     sit there
             being yelled at      by wild cinnamon          like you fathered it
I split into a series    of toasting forks      heartdeep in a sleeping vehicle
the saddest paratrooper           in the Dead Sea       my brother      an apple fly
   waging war on Cyclops      where there’s a will
                                                                                  there is something unpunished
like throwing trout    at the oldest harp    I will scream into a cup    I will punch
my mother’s plants          stomp sugar                sift my humble head
   through a termite’s snowshoe     the termites of love    the crankpins in my forehead

you will be filled      with beach balls     and springlets   and soap loaves           narcissus    this germ-covered swagger of risk       what a gold rush       carving through myrrh smoke
      with the cummerbund of god           the scrutineers bust into thread
                                                              and then so many memories of being opened
             with a belt    you see the knife grass        I ask            the wasp-waisted therapists?
you sunblazed gorilla         swatting at the ion walls of the appointments      you will miss
Giza is boiling             all of the onlookers are psychic           but before you say I am             moving to Belfast      to kill my parents      with sculpture       before your urethra
flings sedatives   off of the overpass of your grief            you will be itchy with neglect
goldenrod              under someone’s tongue                                       a son