Simulacra

Placing favorite omens into my lap, 

Fingers’ printings of paintings in mother’s arms.

I’m making an offer, care for understanding

I just never had for the real thing,

Speaking to you in your native tongue.

Mag fi sticks

Your attic weighs in your first departure,

Strings tied to one ankle for a salvageable trip.

Reliably, weathered doves return to Yuma,

The doctored passage prods from behind and opens ahead

more than once so it sticks.

Third one

Magnetic pull-away pliers sink into the mud,

You lose your footing in bras croisé.

Crowded over the sink rubbing dirt in our mouths –

Have you understood what you’re leaning on?

The restless chatter of synchronizing clocks.