For a while
each year I find
another one of my holes
Dark spots to explore
I have another
another
**
Old telephone calls
recording the parade
of babies bedizened & sinking bibs
**
Speaking in bubbles
welcome weightless holes
From the window to the roof
curved glass & cotton snubbed:
An exit strategy for the night
I bury the dark behind
our house
in exigent avoidance
**
For a while
the record player turns off
on its own
I say phew when I click
the light switch
A curve of this shape?
Have another
Those waters those underground fires
an expressive window like a spot
on the map
a firsthand swiftness
your child, your inner globe
I touch the bottom
of the map, of the lamprey
against your moon-blocking shade
drinking is a clear creature
flicking its gills over
the nightstand
I call out to your—to an apparatus
like a face