says he car gone. says it was not just a second ago. can you believe this is an outrage says he can't go home. what kind of world where this tells he is allowed. where a man can't even explain he wink with both eyes after work at the same time. wants him to know why the school and society or the food which thinks he is being given to the kids now. repeats us his hair pulling, as you are seeing. it's a phrase all they say all their time. moreover not yet sure why or which god keeps leaking.

A daughter in the sandbox I watch. I see her jeans are no good, and the hemming needed later, and how is that fair I ask me. Hop the fence, pay the toll in my fingers; ask her what she's doing and add quietly with her life. Making castles she says. She can't keep an ant on the throne, she doesn't have the ass for it. This giant playground, a fucking tumbleweed somewhere probably. This ant that knows, better. This realistic ant. A daughter's fat palms take puddles from the bucket she brought and I tell you my sad is too big to come out.

The kid had no brothers or toys. He had his own
two hands and a pair of cheap cotton gloves
that couldn't keep out the cold. All day I watched
his shadow load for him uppercuts as carefully
as a bottle rocket. Furious hooks he whipped
like boomerangs through the air between our heads
and always they came back to the place where
they began. To me a fist was just a palm filled with
fingertips - a punch just a poor man's baseball bat -
but the kid would laugh through his nose while working
on his swing in the mirror. By accident once he put

the goalie
of a good team, i talked
to my net.

"today, at recess,
i heard the girl with black hair
who sits ahead of me two chairs
say to someone, about me, yes. that boy
is mine."

to the crossbar, i said

"from now on, everything
is going to be okay!" the sky, i know,
had clouds. my arms.

i was the goalie of
a good team, then. my glove opened once
to a beetle, the big kind

with the antlers, whose wings

i saw and stood. still
as a post.

had you been in the field,
would have seen the boy. he was
a head and some neck sticking out. maximos
is the name the boy gave to himself. max,
who collects. who has hair that moves
with the field. next to the toes of the boy
was the machine that he made: a caterpillar
waited on a loose wing of duct tape. max
the collector listened to the ground and
wanted to howl. it cost his whole
skeleton to lift the machine.

had you been in the field,
would have seen a boy argue
with a box. would have heard a new
born screaming inside. herd not a snake: the sky