for Arlo
Lean-to tree branches form
dinosaur faces
a bird wearing moon boots
lizard nose in a hollow constellation of leaf-stars.
Mama carries the white morning in a woven basket
strapped to her back. Meant for canoeing.
Fashioned for a toddler’s haul. Her hair cut short.
Body targets
bull’s eyes can you catch the toss
Ambitious twigs rooting
upwards, flying, charged
as if by static what
is your business here
Stillness, the child is napping, sing HOSANNA
HOSANNA meaning we can go to the pool and tool
around in circles with plastic sea turtles in hands.
Blueberry mascarpone sky
his Italian father mama’s
birdlike capabilities pitting cherries
for her little bird
The sky turned hot and soupy, cicadas raise
tunes in defeat. I raise my hands in the pool
Is this fun? I ask the boy and he says yes.
A brash of cicadas wind themselves tight—
breathing or brushing.
To count
or not to count
their escalating confidence, braggadocio
of artistry all
tumblish and getting tied
around themselves in quarter notes.
Coltrane’s house
a simultaneous conflict of aural interests—
a different kind of tying
and being tied up, they say caught up
in the music. A net not noticed.
I want to alter my body.
I want to alter my mind to the clearness between A and F.
I am a curious mind who wants to know.
I want to be here when there, there when here.
I thank god all night but still tie up my camel.
I make a sun in that little pitcher.
In search of always morning, in love supreme.
