The liquid air,
substantial,
perfumed vibrancy
blue jays fall
through, squeaking
the effort to push across
soundings in the lush current
of bougainvillea and fronds.
Cement is not a lasting skin
on which to anchor sensation.
Practically rid of thought
already in so much movement.
Intimacy,
a yard of heaped strategies,
refuse bloated with moisture,
exposure and abandonment,
picked over and broken,
greeny and fragrant
from incidental growth.
And still
things go
to the trouble
of being sticky,
of honeying,
attractant,
only partly
scabbed over.
Partial
is a weakness for
more noise,
more drunken flowers,
buzzing, hiving,
coupling
to become forgetful.
In such
heaviness
nothing happens.
(The small nest
was invisible
before and after
the orange truck
swerved
the soccer ball
and crushed
the old tree.)
Spills
are simply coating.
Hours
sink into
churning branches.
Mountains
seal and slide
upward
into the comfort
of misuse
and hemorrhaging.
Muggy
with regret
and still
budding.
Bloody,
infantile
in the stung shade.
Bent on
damage,
the nausea
of bad dirt
fallen on spasms,
on impermanence,
on kisses
beneath plastic.
Always
a blanket,
a deaf puddle.
No more
trembling.
Pieces of brick
in the mud.
EN 
MK