How you are, or are not, “engaged.”
How the body lies,

A dialectic occupying the trees.
How I’ve given you everything,

And now I have none,
Or wait, the stubborn rush of composition

Is like a primitive hanging there.
How we have everything we asked for,

And the apocalypse is far away.
Wear it loosely dear, it feels like home here.


Deep inside, the shabby narratives.
I want nothing that’s touching me.

Letters shattered by our spells,
The undertone of wood on a porch.

I want nothing but to be myself,
And the inked dawn falling all over

My face and hands every day.
I say it’s endless, and the monologues

With their brilliant templates go missing
At intervals, while the nearly frozen

Air offers so much diminishment.
I would like to escape on this highway

And go directly to the self, standing
In splendor, untouched in early spring.


Increments or lettered instructions,
No reason to pulse after a bird’s wings.

I still didn’t understand the novel until
The last sentence.

The soul here occupies the voyage.
What is more persistent

Is the quick dust of stars,
And the mercury of moon-rocks.

Rhythm of afternoons,
The spurts that come out of them,

Show me blithely to the next word
That lies sleeping in its cave.


Unpoliced id eating ginger,
Wandering, wrapped in tape.

The four horsemen in every
Sense of the word.

Sex is so boring! The blue
Gleaming of the sky,

A little coke and a plate of
Chips, gesture and description,

An apparition of you, whose
Imagination did not condemn.

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