your drug hands are telling a tornado,
spinning, fishing to ash. watch it
in the dead gravel. i savored the windows
like poison in the dashy compass,
fresh as a gift like communed signs of grass.
how you bottled up the back, dreaming of smoke
and every dead mourning
and the stars planted at the hotel.
the heat becomes dynamos, one halo
of things that start you
like a curl of the train, thundering the clouds.
so i see it was a telephone. i said:
“look at the forest queen, a shirt
of your team of a boxtom and screen:
jackball as well the bathroom boots,
your face says it can’t be september.”
my backwords. you asked them. maybe i drank
and floated like a time. maybe the lightning
is candles, strings of lit worms. where the sky is rain
you would do anything above the volted clouds.
a particular man
but you give me, you remember,
perhaps after your constellation:
arc of red birds like style.
i think you left the plants later
when i was nothing,
august one to tell you back
with trees into mittens
of your knives–
you tell drinking some inchword
of the fishermam, the gorgeous
attackberries in his egg-years,
the boat garden deep prophecy
pinking through the weather,
saying what she loved.
surely you’re mean like a commodore.
you would christ that this nation
burned from love. good seems to snow,
the train belly’s eyes
tastes of song, and everyone’s over
my thought of trying to say,
my soul of thrushed smoke.
coming off perfectly
so the windows are underwater,
sure, “and the old inscrutable
storm’s twilight drifted.”
the earth wearing weeks,
biology clipping, myself
with a cigarette and i draw drift
in a new highway day.
i just like driving a slowly hour
beyond that call about green.
i get infected miles
from 1971, hospital,
electric marshes and wind.
o let the romance shuttle be—
my listening static on the sutura
back to run me of bleeding.
why, jam the sunflowers
that must like the gods—
tallying yourscapes that fly.
later, but heaven
it’s see birds and real, a scold heat friendly
and them across beautiful, the port clears of fair
melting through mashing bones of blood.
doctors smoky stain her who keep familiar,
all shrinking as a rose. but they all white
in the waterfall teams of days later,
kissed where explode her won’t soul.
why answer in a branch, she says.
the past first say, so you’d say.
you can go like a geology, come
to hope the truth of your life, and i don’t know.
later, but heaven. the bed that had seen
deaths of the wrist, while she all empty flight,
spiritual, not love-in-september wrong.
truth will be a restaurant, i said!
the elegists stand by the cottage,
seagulls in the everywhere
like no calendar, like all nail a time.
so wicked for the amenable drifting
and a voice explodes, thirsting eggs.
i get your packed problems,
strong of pointed breaths
on the subzero of the body.
but what is sailing the season
of the jagged clouds, or a cornfield
as it seems through the dark?
the worn words calm up the burning
in the gravel below.
so here’s the story of subtly sheets,
life in streams of minor.
a sermonic water snakes the snow,
and i study the sand and the lightning.
i have these longing hands,
curlicues round and swang,
and you clapped our lives
(electric-winging, a rockwork
of some god) into a creek of photons.
months make mountains holy.
so simply these eggs
for the way of a swirl
away from a bird of laments.
love is breath’s breakfast word.
B.J. Best is the author of three books and four chapbooks of poetry, most recently Yes (Parallel Press, 2014). He lives in Wisconsin. Torch-rnn is created by Justin Johnson, based on work by Andrej Karpathy. It lives on GitHub.