Kitty poo is stepped into, stepped into
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/
drawing lifesize walls on the walls, without
the holes. I wear my own clothes, smell

of myself while walking through walls, smile
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/
as I tip my palms across a Floridean
peninsula, spilling lucky rain. We’ve left them

the run of the house for days, fist-sized
black jettison, and Robert Smithson has yet
to even notice. The son of a Cure lead singer:
/*gingerly#accidentally#rapaciously#coyly*/

he wonders what weave his bones would have
had he been born somewhere and to someone else.
We really do believe in these ghosts of our fathers,
and we really do sleep with our closets shut tight