Gallant Phantoms through the Pineapple Door
       

World in a sling slung over the tops of jars
whizzing into forgotten triangles.

A slow return to breathing.

All the all filtering top to middle, poured
down to mix with the sediment in the walls.

Limes cut by a hacksaw,
clotted cream thrown into the fan.

No one calls the fire department.
No one calls the police.

A vacation spot in the material world.
The happiness experiment, so called.

Dirt under the fingernails,
fatigue lifting off shoulders.

Off she goes to untangle her necklaces.
Light shed in blasts not bleats.

Uncommon arrangements winnowed to slivers
understood only as they pinion fingertips,
pushing blood in bubbles up to round the surface.

Open a vein, an artery, a heart.
Let the air in.

Let's spend some lives together.

We can make a nest in palimpspastic branches and puffs,
over there by the old house, the hair smell, and the music.

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Copyright © 2011 Travis Nichols All rights reserved
from See Me Improving
Copper Canyon Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission