Christian Wiman says poetry is supposed to be beautiful. What's beautiful about a couple of URLs?
and then again what isn't?
dogs!
Their burning fur at night.
Slinking away on the cobblestone steps
the man who's arm resembles a camel's neck
becomes electric
the asphodel on the fence
not for sale
but beauty
can't help but roll boxcars.
Over the river Seine
I've become a new kind of machine
rust shakes elbows
like nails left in a grave
we dreamt of exquisite hammers
holstered in a neon green cases beside our pillow
It expends daytime repelling feathers; as a collector of dust.
Hermes said it could not
Her knees say   stay   -in knots
summer is like an egg in her throat so I thought
what I crawled through would be edible, only the voice

I put flowers into your mouth
and watched your blue eyes bloom
i think i read a poem somewhere about a kiss blooming
the shadow followed her across the floorboards