How You Livin?

 

like the air ain’t filled with
coarse windchimes
sirens loud as a jet in flight

the quick jabs
of a couple arguing about cheese
and face masks
and children at borders
borders of language
and knotted bellies

I tell you
it’s hard to sleep
when the news is a bare-
skinned sidekick

I try to harden my shell
make it marble
filled with filament
and nails

but how you livin
among the salt, ash, and slate
at your doorstep— all this
grit under your eyelids

What the Fingers Do

 

My daughter learned to point
in a cemetery.
There were many deaths that year.

The priests’ black shirts grew discolored from sweat.
Florists did well.
Pillowy, white fabric lined the open …

greenery overlapping in the poet’s back garden in Jakarta

for a jakarta microbiome

 

 

because do calls this house an ecosystem

where straddling folioles tangle mighty-fisted

along a wire canopy he strung

above the brick-and-pot garden, and city fox

coming like a client for bananas they feed it …

and Sundays.

Sundays are for the depressed
half-naked
dancing in alleys
of fiction
of fructose

Sundays are for feeling small
submerged in our dreams

misty eyes
and
mild madness

green drapes
and
country music

Sundays are …

The Last Photo with My Father

At the threshold of the sitting room
Standing
On the only stair that separates the door and the floor
The device snapped

The father, his amaranth red bubu
The son, his …

We Are Part of Those Who Keep Wake

We will keep wake up until the boundaries of insomnia
We will not sleep
We will pluck out the eyes of drowsiness
We will pull the bed away from naive …