poet 

my tongue fits through the head 
of a needle. my sewing machine
wants to make me a new skin
so i collect the pelts of roadkill:
a fox & a raccoon & a rabbit.
their souls dance like jello all around. 
soon i will be a cryptid & children
will invent legends about me
& my patchy fur & my fish eyes.
hopscotch squares draw themselves
on the sidewalk. a rock falls from a tree.
i'm talking about gosh not god.
here comes the aching again.
if they took out all my blood
& funneled it back in again 
would i finally be alive? 
once i found a leech on my ankle.
a bug bite bloomed on the back of my thigh 
between my leg hairs. everyone 
& everything is getting hungry.
this autumn i don't know what to wear.
the sweaters have moved on to clothe 
more beautiful people. i need
a sleep bag to hibernate in.
in my fur, i'll eat poison berries
& blur into a phantom. 
my silhouette is a folklore.
lock the street at night
or you might become a piece
of one of my poems. all animals 
have their poets. big foot 
is out there somewhere stringing 
words together in his mouth.
even the wood pecker has a love
for caesura & the lantern fly 
over uses the emb-dash 
just like me. i want to give up
my pens & typing machines so that
i can only write poems 
in the dirt & the sidewalk chalk.
poems under feet. do i miss
being human? should i bury myself
for winter? is the ground already frozen?
latex gloves grow from a new tree.
i put them on. one blue. one opaque.
let us be sanitary with our love.
i go to the river
to witness floating.