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Description
Between the tea hut and Paradise
a man is found. I think of him blue,
wading out, the wood full of steam.

I watch. We’re all kind of just
moving around—starving and committing
and putting up Christmas lights.
Another thing:

these stars are Arizona stars.
Remember the ravens dry
on the sidewalks? This too
we wade through. No affiliation
to the college. Adult

male, time and cause of death,
etcetera—I think he stepped out
for a cigarette. Ash to ash, or perhaps,
a cardinal to ice, no more
than an apostrophe looking
to get fat. I grow

excited to show off more
of what I don’t own.

How impatient the stoplights look
when no one is using them. Slow,
cavernous flamenco unfurling
from the direction of cars
I can’t see fully

in the dark. Snow—the hypnotist
we turn our backs on most, trash,
craft men out of, men in the fullest
sense, making proper use

of (stolen) carrots. Young women
(old girls) in bruise-colored coats
roll in the white blanket
on Paradise, shut-eyed, calling Marco.

In play the rumor of death
dissipates. The pond ice thaws—
unraveling its blue ghost.