ok, a poem a day for the month of april

after Duncan

come back
as if
made up

I is
not mine

but makes
what is

by delimit:
walls shadow

and that's how we know
where we are


I'm a box
of bones,

their shapes
imitations

of the way
words always squirm
inside words

so that they don't
mean what they mean. they blanket the
squirming things.

I remember--enfold--at freeze--bent grass
in wind. I own it, but don't
own I. That is

the first persimmon. O mensch. O my.