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!”