the kite a prelude to joy

king rust at play—& the third

cloud to resemble

jesus wrestling

a bedsheet today. one monster

written into her bed is the truck stop

killing of my name. clouds

stack against him

he—a jar of pickled teeth

later—gives notes from the beach ice

last spring. how like you

to ride the only kite left

in a room. the first awkward curses

mistaken for lust, & where

are the poems for smashing into

motel nightstands

on your third honeymoon? above

the golf course, three clouds

bark like wild dogs. it’s

how we all learn to speak.