I am the empty stadium in your dreams, warmly lit

by orange peel flowers, domes flaring. My flesh swells in

Quiet bloom.

To see the infinitive ceiling while it’s dry, I jump into the hole 

of the Joyceian dog’s nose. It sniffs the citrus of stars and children, imperiled, 

Quiet below.

I float outside to fill a telluric cup with brown rainclouds. Then I pour some blue milk

on cereal stars, and on every small particle that glows – melting disenjambed in

Quiet bowl.

A blue cactus grows from my sweet watermelon gum. Scoring inside

the wall of my agar mouth, it punctures my radish teeth. From cavity kisses, I

Quiet bleat.

I let the natural horror out through my tunnels. On three, my eyes mind the rain-washed 

pane – slices upon the heron. A nasal croak. A sorrow of summer, a 

Quiet bloat.

The heron looks, wet, loving, at a fulgid fish. Concentric circles

Are dangerous creatures of mindless hunger. They wish to swallow whole this summer’s

Quiet bount. 

Have some silver breakfast, you avian. The still creature well 

Meets my command while slurping. If impossible to conquer entrails, swallow whole with

Quiet bill. 

Meanings transcend wood. Frames could be eddy driftwood or 

Frames of a house near a stadium, both shattered along a long, lamp-strewn

Quiet beach.

Glassy teeth. The moist summer bleeds clear. I am shown the Greek code 

told to snail shells. Of whispers’ scent, of

Quiet soul.