I used to want to be happy,

until I realized I wasn’t ready to give up anything.

Maybe my pose in the picture wasn’t so bad after all.

Maybe if I slanted the top hat this way and that

I would look a lot less than a scarecrow.

I have performed forgiveness in error before.

The fresh prints of rubber hands

that do not ask permission to take yours.

I want to lay myself down on the frail twigs

and perform an autopsy

for when I die.

The sticky handle of the sun’s knife

serrating through the jagged hills of mountaintops

and never saying sorry.

I want to be like that.

Just like that.

When I run a distance

I want the mile to look back at me in a startling direction.

I want to be anything

but myself.

That when we are headed, perhaps,

across a symmetry of skies

it won’t be a jute blanket kneading my eyes.

I used to want

spring blossoms in this golden orchard.

Did you remember to forget?

The fireplace glows cold light and what is given or lost

returns twofold.

Nothing will ever stop for those who chase

after everything.

Who are you when you are not alone?

Who will you be when the night eats every flower?

What gaping thing will cross-pollinate

just to meet you?

What sound will your body emit

after the chariots run gold through the earth?

A geometry of blue kindles the memory.

My heart,

are they fraying you gently or turgidly?

Who do I have to speak to about this?

I go to the slaughterhouse floor

where the poem presses

its neck on the woodstock.

Sword, close your beak.

This one isn’t ready just yet.