Visitation No. 3
a wheel carrying wood traveling slowly across “the west”
with a pilgrim atop it, the grooves from the mormons
still in the rock on the mountainside, up and down
to some arbitrary eden with saline deposits, and I admire them.
I wonder if there are toys made entirely out of matchsticks.
save yourself with a round foam hoop, spun deliciously around your hips,
hair flying off in three hundred and sixty directions,
connected with coil rope to the love boat, stubing at the helm,
railroads running across the caribbean to bring gold to the “east.”
another caspar haunting another empty mansion,
near the divinity school — another list of orange juice and paper —
and another map here folded into a pillowcase for you to rest your head,
a reassurance that there is a mercator projection to the world,
a place to rest your head, filled with arbitrary edens of your own.