after the leaving I shaved my head
my words squared off
I shaved my head
the pure joy of plumbers
V. Hotel of Lost Light
When hair covers the face like a tent of images.
When tires are broadcast in treble.
O, brother we are lost in a room with buckled flexi glass.
Our wet fingerprints refuse to dry.
is a magnet
& we cannot take leave
of our senses.
There’s too much blood
under the bridge &
the pigeons refuse to carry messages.