Hyperbole

So you say the night is safe, the sky is only sky, there isn’t a divide
between us like gravel underfoot and our arms reaching

who are we but here we are and never mind
the hysteria that grates on us as a term, it’s the doctors

we need to see and can’t today and today
stupefies with its blue blue sky. Say

you could eat a horse, say it’s only a feather that knocks you down.

Say Ghost

Say what it is or wasn’t. Some winter, it hasn’t occurred. It could be a trouble. As ever, the esses. My
s’s slip. Sure. Foot, sure shoe, dead shoe, soft. I wonder how to spell things or unkeep things. What
to name an ice that isn’t in air, an attic, who would want to. It’s unnerving. I’ve had— this isn’t
invention— a strange number of windows break over me, across – arms, arms – through. This isn’t
my telling. Say,