Gift Way

You have a way of going.
Like wet bookshelves are oceans.
Inside our hands, ghosts write seeing.
A pleasant image retards perfection.
Like some water cups, those girls gave flashes.
After the war, my box could not be found.
We had some animal segments.
Left over beehives filled with money.
To off some damaged pickle literature.
They wanted me to throw a tool.
But to say that is to cry like an envelope.
Better we had fear’s own teeth.
Whose children produce a figmentation.
Standing at the crater, a presidential nurse.
The image turns into birds.
As your hand exposed time’s hair.
Their pages like waves of thinking.
It’s a way from a dream the sky had.