OUIJA
Night. Night sly in blinked
coffee. Night. Sippy cup
of night-path darkness
culminates in song
itching out over the house
tremendous. Tremendous
withstanding. A crunched
metal, mottled blue
of bald paint, settling
haunches. The truth.
The truth of a dream.
Mathematics, truth of
a pattering sleepwalker,
a missed call. A hidden
cancer. The good enough
house, a might-lie
mouth. The cicada’s shell,
it’s heady croak door
to a dad-planted garden.
I shove up from that,
I hoax. Adults, keep.
Children if only
the mind. And abhorrence
of thank-you, of avoidance
and touch. Of telling
the truth. The truth
in relation to reason.
Reason hung like a yard
bee-cloud drift amber
over some earlier sound
preserved, precise
in cloud. Awoke each
morning’s earthliest
sound that shakes us
bald from mother’s
thigh, dark culminates
in catalogue sound,
a cat’s pink tongue
then sand. A black expanse
by the hand of Mars. To a blacker
ocean mirage. The crick
I forded. The crick on foot,
call not received. The hand
I moved from your knee.
The basil smell of your
hair. Patch technology
to the sun, let Kara Thrace
vanish. Let bird light
on the roof, cream-
chested bird, sandpaper
roof. Like a tunnel
curtain, a cigarette
descent from accident.
Night’s halftone tries
not to do much then
disappears, moves
a hand from the knee
I call sound honesty, bright
copper bikes on gravel
little threads in driftwood
hard to trace. Hollow
and long, a braced wild.
A disappearance.
A cover-up covered
patio. I’d win and win
again. I’d make up rules
to win. A bee, a boy
at my window, a book. Limping
road, a vanished blinking
black expanse in cream.
My mottled shirt mother-
water. My night self’s
mind full, a time lack,
lacustrine. No cross-outs
my huggable jigsaw,
my warning marquee,
my final transaction
is moved by the hand
of an elder, I lap her,
I believe what’s true:
about a cloud of bees
by the light of watchers
with cameras behind
shut windows, they follow
their queen and nobody
steps into the wrong cloud.