ghosts in the weeds of a long sand
about to beat a look from lunch

about to keep pursuing hands like a veil



a head of cornflowers

gusto

wear tweed in a big saw hand

the dust be sent



ghosts are the weeds in a big lawn
an island of sand you spraying your dance
down

lift the trees back from what’s left




*

gone dead and light too to carry it ghosts
in the hair and story make good (no hari-kari commitment)

the small one’s to spook



the smallest
one runts is running

ghosts in the hairy porridge of soot

ghosts in the weeds rattle and umber



be sent (by gather)

be sent (by skin)




*

there—a stolen grand scheme to settle yourself under
now’s no place for earnest discussion

the keep a pocket and nothing



ghosts in the sepia contents: slumber and eye gloss




*

so narrow
a whole spray

of you to dance with




*

we same the afterlife up

a slick yellow coat
of salt and what can’t be left to touch us circled

ghosts in the seed of a big lawn of sand



quit the timing and all

need for what’s after hunger
(winterfiremess)
soft the voice’s hypnosis



a sail open