As If Made of Blue Legos

In inaccurate skin, among hologram trees, fresh from the tundra of dreams, I hear public television say that Jesus was trilingual. Billie Holiday sings the loss of plotliness, the loss of onomatopoeiabreath. Doris asks if I’ll touch her titanium humerus—I do. I go to Sheboygan to stand in Emery Blagdon's "The Healing Machine," which was brought in pieces from the Nebraska Plains. Its coffee can klieg lights' grace and copper wire sculptures leave burns all over me. Death is like Russia: beautiful, cold, expansive, expensive. Ephesus says: even marble turns to chalk. Aldebaran is nearing the end of its life. Jupiter and the moon are the closest they'll be until 2026. It's 25-below wind chill. Winds push iced piers into houses. My wounds smell like strawberries. Jim who once saw a UFO and was too tired to tell anyone, who rode a tiger, and slept with his cornet's mouthpiece stenciled on his lips, was a lifelong Indiana water garden gang member, Jim who delivered a baby from my body, Jim, impresario of poems, parking tickets, and sky-blue hydrangeas, Jim who "wore a crown of snow," Jim's ashes change the garden. Who can sleep with banded Jupiter so close to the moon?