April 6

April 5

I always think that orange

cat is a fox.

& what does that bird look like?

April 4

nothing yet.

eggs & cocoa.

woodpecker knocks

out brain,

harangue ‘m a leaf green

hangs a rough bark bug

up the up sun come

April 3

bootprints white on

sewage pump, thin lavender branches.

feels awkward; missing—

April 2.0: Languid Angle

Languid angle      dang  alang nang lingding

gidin squid  glad glid alid long  dog not nod

dis isk dis gog dole   dog gone  did dig  skid

gagang lowded goald askans agag aglowded

meald maskers ug ug glug ug welo welo le

lealom   leamelone asker  muglug owl owl

mole mole   whisker whiskey  golglowlow

Lemuel  slepslap   whole  awhole rogawall

Me,   you,   sopsoul   hell   hella  ruck  wool   mow

meow  spoils  oil  scrawl   crikrall   hai,  hai!   hi hi!

warms orms plaices lace los losoi rascal (bye) be)ay

smear  plaeides  soil  sp rawl  warscralall  (bay) (be)

sum   opalsoap’ll   solo   wa cwab   yab,  yay  o  yey

apossomo   cracknar sal also  bay lay  cabday de day

mosspecro   etrol   low  liam  maz crab  applé   v’ay

oster   prycome   saze maze  O zeal!  O us! Keepeak

pretester   amour   mop   zees   doze  loop   oop oop

stesterosterich,   mozees   plose    d’red  red   sposes

toes toes    sto  sto    chir  chir     som  som    sop sop

esther   esther     lotsot  sitchir     chir     mope  dope

stellar ellat stol dot titspur purr pome pome o

epo lar slarlelarslar, Told’ya! Disturp burp e’lear

                                                earlier

April 2

April 1

Muckabout in past become so sound a present.

If we’re wise we no the difference (there is know difference).

& certain principal bedstones of worship emergent—

A holy meal. A fig remembered. Dove. An olive.

Fermented liquids of abundance-fruit.

Steps & curtains. Keepers of the god-head.

A little room. A little door. A broken oak one once

would climb. Limbs a brittle soaked in shotglass dusk.

The wash: we clean we cleanse, leer diadem withins,

a bright blessed meandering rain—

Whatever is true, we name the sun. Shake our salt out

on the altar. Pepper. Basil. Sage. Our slumber sears, lemonlooking.

Drops just some to tart the spicelip slip. Not lost; we all

must lose together to be lost. High on nigh on here, O ear!

Ghost will gamble, angel clear. Cold.

When we notice it’s been spring a while, sends a calm

back into the shivering shrines of white wilderness.

“The dark days,” we are fond of saying,

                                  “made the blue ones blue!”

There is no color called blue.