Black Radish

After voiceless sounds
the anointed oil
is the simple past
along the spinal cord
from the five fused bones
to the middle garden
and the residence of the despots
to the black radish
the pons and the endpapers
of the light of the world.

Ammon’s Horn. White Horse.
You consent to birth
around thirty-eight, flashing LIBRE,
hermosa auto-corrected
to hernias, cat sneeze of gold
potpourri. White petals
falling on the street.
She sees them. I see them too.
Assisted living, cooperative exit
in the dry kingdom of the real.

Swelling night to night
the crossings like vertebrae
or a flux transfer event
in humid mountain towns
north of New York City.
It trembles to quantum identity.
Suprachiasmatic nucleus.
Smoking moon. Burnt bosque
cheesecake. Sad girls of the galleria.