Again on Monday I asked you about the past,
earlier I had risked drawing a ziggurat as a sign of forgiveness.
Arrest me. Beat these eggs until they have weight.
Arrest my flowers or fervor.
I respect you for your garble and attention to absence.
Zorro is powering through on his horse. The dolphins are singing.
Rainspout. Pour Tutankhamun into the gas tank, joke about time.
And the surge is sudden. You’re skimming the bottom of the barrel
for a sense of what it is to speak. To copy. To circle and claim.
There are horses on the moor. None of them hold light.