it is eleven here but it is noon there.

look how an hour, how a sweetheart

of trees, how mercy.

i am learning electrical, tying ribbons

to the slates in the wall.

it’s nice to see what lives inside sometimes.

as the curls fall to the floor, this pile

these hands have nothing to do with faith

beyond these fields.

i lay the pliers down in dust on the organ

and who named the wired piano

after the engines of our body

what’s hardly bruiseable

between downdeep and our skin.

the question floats off like a bit of milkweed

caught by a melody of wind.

a friend mans the drill to pull a square bit

out of a socket and the breaker box gets flipped

and flipped.

tomorrow i won’t reroute a wire

just let what hollows through me pump.