(**)

Thunderous bay windows greet a paper dragon
Between a gate left wide.
There is an avalanche.
The baking soda woman with closed lips.
There has been a need for ink to squirm
Over our eyelids.
A reflector spinning on a parked tire,
A stuck zipper warning the end of an age.
The distant cousins of disabled incisors
Chew the paper like wheat.
When this nest is closed,
The next nest is disclosed.
The skin of a leather wagon carrying pamphlets
Is tattooed with mud,
Breathing born again billows into nighttime.
There are avalanches.
Somehow it is an obsession with milk,
A kill count.
Hello, square see-through cushion,
Square nightmare of distance.
Closed switchblade, forgotten,
Forgotten U-lock and a squeeze.
One thousandth of a concentration
On therapeutic cursing cruising.
Stuck in more than one place.
There has been a very angry mob
In between the window.
How much mud to knead beneath our nails
Is determined by a card trick.
Twigs and mouthfuls,
Dances and rituals.
Bent to behold a ladder with two rungs,
A box for tracking practice.

(mustard seed)

Burning swallow of smoke
Sent straight to disown our cortex.
All the blessings grown and given,
Distances predetermined.