Paintings on Ceilings

One way is

all things collapsing

upon you, the ground.

Feel about that.

Or air boiling.

Every side is right side up.

Everyone has twisted towards you

with a scythe or crown of planets:

you’re going to be hurt by this.

You’ll need a false cornice, multiple skies,

a cloud for every lion, comets,

horses, registers of cloth

like shores for bodies.

With no horizon it can seem

like you are in a grave.

A room becoming ruined

can’t mean what I want,

no matter what I want, how

combing my hair

feels so romantic

despite everything else.

The ceiling is translated.

Prepare for it to say

you are dead,

not by seeing but thinking.

It haunts the room above.

And after a death, face it,

what works is forgetting.

Small Missing Animal

New leaves startle each other
on the same branch. This wind

rips my exhale so away,
disgusting world, I can’t confess
anymore: how can a man
be tougher than the world?

Fluorescent daylight pressed
like a desert when you died,
sky on ice, sheets of sand, white,
like stars all day.

I could not accept my reward.
Bodies disappear. That’s the story.
I found where I was by following
the dead hero following me.

New ones appear. I felt nothing
but thank you. I would say to

let darkness come next to you,
close, very close right next to you.

Copyright the author(s) ©2007–2014