if i am writing poems

can a poem do what hands do?

can it reach?
hold someone?
kill someone?
hold on for dear life?

if i am writing poems, know i mean to be writing hands
they are the things that do the real labor around here

winter

what a relief the bare lace of winter trees.
brings the breath back to bone
back to silver back to granite
watch us: the chimneys and I are huffing quietly

atomic hypothesis

there is no such thing as body there is only movement our bodies are like a windowless room filled with brightly balloons, except the walls of the house are made of balloons and so is the space between them, those are balloons too and when we heat up by our dreams by the radiation of each others souls on fire we jiggle about like singing tonsils bumping into each other like the running bulls swinging balls and we are attracted to each other in the dance, our brightly round bellies rubbing up against each which explains why we cant help suck the pulp out from each other's memories and fantasize rolling our green cold eyes inside our warm purple mouths or stick ourselves into each other into the viscous moving balloons of each other just to glob right on and become each other like mold

pac-man bit

the smallest chunks of information are bits because of the way the gnaw on the brain they enter the brain tube and mutate into fish mouths with the stringy razor teeth, little silver pac-mans coming with jaws open

i have to eat hamburgers because to use the brain is to make it run on its legs which turn to jello things and its stomach full of gilly toothy bits turns over too like a cake and the soles of its shoe are worn down like sardines.