Butter

From what I can tell
the tiger is churning butter
into stars or until I can see stars
as symbols of my getting lonesome
for no one at all. Vast as this
line of planes coming in over Brooklyn
I have a plan, and it is full of dirt
and fire. People cry all the time
for what has happened to them or for what
has never happened to them or even for what is
going to happen to them. I don't have
time for that shit, I have air to catch and folks to kiss.
People are looking for change, in their pockets
a crayola melts into a peach spot and you are so
into me I can feel my spine against the wall.
Let me sleep with real purpose
with calm comes something entwined with care
I give you this box of notes
a poem hidden in a book on a top shelf
you'll never find because that's just
the way things go (everyone dreams of flying).
Cold chalk lines form the outline of these arms
spread revealing nothing but the better part
of me which is really only glistening and
nearly done as I warp and sliver over 7th Avenue.
A snake in the kale, a maze made of hay,
a dark circle under each eye. You are so alive
I feel electric. Sit down with the tiger.
Sit down on this century. We are not off course
we are right on target, get on board.