the spirit cats


the snowflesh massed on kilometer bone. sown
black wet in patterns on the tarmac where
hot pipes ache under her
road. the snow heals careless boot-heel rips
while the valley evokes in storm
an open grave of quick-limed
forms. the crystal flesh dentate
along eurorail sutures around
stacked-up black-edged corners, your
chimney-tops steaming like coffee cups, your
finger trees in sugar fused
imploring. look snow
flakes down in winnowed flumes like
paint off a god-banged
Reich moon.


the unofficial state birds of Berlin, pigeons, Refuseniks
of the sky, those flying gym shoes, weep
around their bits of
heat, sit like dirt-of-sleep wedged
in the corners of each of every building’s
heavy-lidded, iron-bracketed
eyes. the muslim girl’s spirit cats
bound the brown carpet in quadrants, use
inhuman reflex to eschew affection like the proffered

hand’s uncouth and
jump like espressoes spilled up
or two black hands playing eight-note chord on
keyboard sills to gloat the
dizzy views. From behind
the glassed-out pigeon pies, while
two vast realms (of cloud and ground)
collide, the cats are teeth-chattering mad
at the hampering glass that
excludes warm bird but leaks cruel North
inside. The spirit he tries to comfort