Thesis

Favorite me, Mom, somersault
sweating your pockets. Whistle lit sugar
skeined in figure eights a rainbow of skims
of blue and blue. Your soul wants to burn
down the lower staircase or a bedding
throat. How we eat with no lips
of light by the fur of your drapes
my wanting wanting.
You think, silver had to thaw
flesh so awkward come to mind
when ducks dial underwater: A pause
in the universe's cold. We don't see
where the wild fours grow a chrysalis,
your pieces flush
with Venetian blind on the painted wall
above the cubing jewel of the shadow
body, thirsty and searching
for a clock. The disordered
bones of night cough up
a yellow spotted frog, fraught,
that my face transforms. How I become
a block a block forgiven.