See incredible sweat blowing from my winter
chimney to shine and sleep and illuminate
incohate zeal in the delirious frantic ocean.
Watch me make a picture with language,
ephemeral in the hold of angels.
My need is wild, brazen, cunning,
and yet the urge for blood moans through.
I just put this together on my refrigerator. And now I have the voice of the little boy from The Sound of Music in my head saying, “But it doesn’t mean anything!”