zafusy

One foot in the mucus of the Garden of Eden,
Dufus is my living love, my blue symmetry
shoes shattered in the mind of legendary speech.

Electronic signals shot through a pencil that
becomes warm brown as Egypt on the old paper
where epilepsy of form says it all. From.

I kiss your radio waves and dumb pulse.
Regions of infernal sound make me feel real
but your real sentences make me fall asleep.

Columbus is just a discolored dove. Stone.
What strikes the ear is a dippy discipline
crawling through my setae. Vivacious crayfish.

Burnt cream. A pardon to the migrant soul
which found itself swarming without. Eggs under.
Today you are stainless, the head’s dulse.

W.B. Keckler

through holes
embryo pixilated
as pussy willow bones

narrow the shove
(resurrection)

fawning in suspicious ways

what crossed so many highways
parallel-veined
nomads click teeth

against the bowstring
time

drop lens

deal narcolepsy’s
glasspaper shoreline

birds strut

into superficial
laxity, bright

donor

W.B. Keckler

rivers away like Sanskrit
under your brow’s
shelf you hadn’t guessed

“apple,” “path,” “father”
encrusted
on the ancient drawn bow

unspeakable, spoken
child tongue of dreams
scratches you on glass, must be

why the effort tires my bones
in sleep, to awake miles away
asking what mineral knuckle

made the shapes below breath
and loyally scrapes the adamant
to facets, even as I try to toss it away

a die for others to play with
a sheep’s knee-bone
has pollen, has prayers

W.B. Keckler