I devoured the sky with a fork and 
a spoon-- packed a suite case
from the lighthouse to the moon--

drifting people
keep spoons and forks in their
suite cases on the perhaps 
that the sunset might be ripe
enough to eat--
we'll stop and take a wicket basket 
full-- stir the clouds with me--
we're running away again 
as we first did when we were eight--
run away as a family-- trunk
full of amethyst stones intended for
to swallow heavy as worry--
we're not only feet travelers--
we aren't bound by limb or skin
or utensils--  
i'm talking about people
who meander out of their bodies
when they lay down on a sofa--
ramble into another ceiling
excavate the caverns of the cushion--
trip on another windowsill while 
they mistake themselves for a
fork scraped against an
almond cookie moon-- deep spoon
crack the surface a creme brulee pond--
when i was eight
the world fit into my grandmother's
faded blue shell of a suitcase--
i have always packed it to run
away to our apricot nectar channel--
to the back of a blue station
wagon plowing it's 
way through a peach field--
through a thicket of sky scrapers--
to hotel 
bathtubs i use to deploy
the submarine fleet--
carry the suite case to Atlantis
to stack with sand dollars--
gamble with the dried urchins--
the back half 
of the suite case has always
been devoted to the stuffed 
animal congregation-- the kiwi, the lion,
and the red bull with the 
chewed curly tail--
the front pocket is for pencils--
and spoons and forks which happen to
be all the different ways write
a poem--
write yourself into a spoon full
of sky-- a snap of a chop 
stick or a ball point pen
bleeding into the apricot nectar 
channel--
it's best to leave 
when the sky is ripe with
another thunder storm-- ring
over the lighthouses put
the stuffed animals in the back pocket
take your fork 
and spoon in your hands--
it's time to eat the electricity--
sip sorbet of the blushing sky 
we all packed suite cases for meal--
when i was eight i knew 
what it meant to escape
but since then i have turned 
my forks into pencils-- my spoons
into the hollow hungry click
of a pen--
the animals don't come along anymore
because now i use that space for
poems and fragments 
of poems i can't find an ending too--
are you coming with me tonight?
i think the sky is almost ready--
it turns ripe while your 
not looking and no one likes
sour clouds-- pluck a star from
the broth with the broken chop sticks--
this is how we devour a sky--
suite case ready to amble away 
from a body-- i pack a suite case
as an anchor so i don't walk too far 
from the moon-- 
when it's new i spend the night
away from myself-- knock at the door
to my bed room to ask my body if i
can come home yet-- they don't 
permit me to sleep in skin
until i've eaten enough
and i tell them i'm full 
and it's cold and everything
only tastes like apricot nectar-- broke
window of ramekin creme brulee-- 
the channel turn custard thick
last night while we weren't
looking-- i'll drive this time--
the blue station wagon has been
know to path roads with 
the amethyst in the trunk--
we'll drive up there to the lighthouse--
from there get forks poised for a moon--
i can't eat all this alone--