i like birds; you like whirls.

mornings swullen in their cool. the morning
left a mind a-living in the sunlight.

here, i close my door and
and make my pictures leg a walk

of unkempt blackness in
smooth wet plastic

chalk.

color crayons dropped from my
hands, and landed in the darkest,
bland and care-all body caulk.

swullen mornings lost in
leftturns--black night turns that leave you
yearning for the spider hand across your eye,
the spider hand, killing light, the light, the night, oh

where is twilight,
swullen

at my door.