to magic with
the words themselves
the extravaganza
of becoming something else
like the pitter-patter
the night cannot help but offer
like bread stuck
on the saintly hand
of the middle man
heart be
the yeast of my flesh
raise me like a father
in a small brave boat
in love's april of memory
when rain is only
an addition to the mathematics
of a beatific lake
sentence me to
any of the many sand-counting
chores that evolve within
the ripeness of ripeness
and peck my feet till
I am running, running for
the holiday implicit
in something as simple as
a pumpkin seed