The moon disease. The moon cannot smell or flame or canteen. I cart my knuckles to market at midnight. Vowels come out of fire like how in my watery house the cutting board reeks. Repetition in poetry is resistance. Don’t eat eyelashes & wreck your appetite. Form is a plaything, an extruder, an active: four sandals that weigh the beach blanket to the sand & the sea-wind that buoys any corner. I watch what flaps to shift the lid. I flock, finger, deform the lingering.

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The paycheck we glide on: if I mildew your laundry, if I crack the ice-cube tray, if the blanket’s on the balcony, if the egg hits the tracks, if your bath alarms, if we lace fatty moods to the poem, if the instinct defeats me, or, if the instinct defies the white carpet, if the soapy bowl dries, if curtains sustain the painting of a balcony above war, if I can’t look like you, if body parts rain from the elevated train, if all my prayers are threats, if the mood pools into a sense of eggs, if we run out we throw spare-ribs, if the poem threatens, if grass slicks the sea,