I see poems as the figures align and poems I see in hair and the eyes of many, but unknown to those who have them (the poems that is) they remain untold. I hear poems as the winds orchestrate, and as the light makes those who move move for certain reasons, I hear poems: [ the everyday balance of the see-saw skins; the purple lips that silently crack stories to themselves; eyes of the animals… ] Infinite these be reasons by ways of poems’ be, and the salty tear’s one-tide drips over the puddle of laughter that turned its back on me between the threshold of a nap and death- - Death: which glows its friction brittle by all ways does it come and go glowing darkest’s lightest @ once: (sugar birth baby stick staked dark water chocolate and spherical wheel walls overwhelmed at memory’s flicker film flashing negative overlapp against the pipe’s light over-wax, wriggle worm wriggle, loose cough over over-sized rice suspended in a glass book sealed by an intestine casing, wriggled open and closed, closed tighter, broken open, pressed shut, sealed, and then hidden by the colorless shopping cart labelled “Apples”, smothered by a forearm tatooed “Yam” which caught the frightening size of the current from Niagra – but overseen from the chew stick bridge, breath rang hot with breast’s milk from the high sky of a chest ten commandments wide with snow held together by harness and high-chair, a pony-tail dangling and gagging down mucus twitching with the twinkle of the stars (which were even higher) which, bright as they were, were also labelled “Apples” and rattled along the aisle of Love and Consequences winding up in a sphere of ice…) I lower my head to compose poems I hear, raised to poems I see, and then lowered to hear them see me… for it is all a part of The Poem, the Grand Scheme, who’s hand I see before me palm-back-outspread with a trickle of sweat that does not move. I shake this hand with a smile and recognize it as my own, though it is not. We frolick from claw to molusk and then back to ball— the pink putty ball which will blend with my scalp as it is shaven for the same reasons I have lowered my head. DEATH. But yet, Death— it does not last (so I’m told). More like a chance for a long answer. (So I tell). Yet, as the grip relaxes these words are written, a chance to glimpse whatever it is I glance the split second that has already lived and passed on now, beyond any head.