Sleeveless.

Is it a jacket or an organ
You're turned away and hidden in?

It is, at any rate, ruined
By roving torrent
It is pulled across the wrest:

And it barely covers you.

First I hoped I would capture you naked,
Startled, and folding in.

Are you so certain to lie hidden from me?

My fascination slips out,
Buoyantly.

From the breeches.

Had a better direction been taken
And conditions prevailed
In our favor

Then perhaps this emergency might
Be a celebration.

We have, under the circumstances,
Been blessed

With all the silver of Heaven.
And the tears of Adam...

They too made the journey.

What wreckages of lines do we find drawn
On the distance though.

What I'll miss the most.

Reminders are scattered
All around,

Insentient and therefore incapable
Of change:

One you might see lies in smart
Girls, their eyes pitted with
Bottomless questions.

Another bats between fading buildings,
Their shutters shed, their privacy and
Style...so long.
Eventually we will forget where they are.
They'll just be gone.

A third reminder will be found in the wood itself,
In ash, rinds, and the wind that swifts to know us;
Nothing beyond that--nothing
In storage,

No one lone line of leftover data
Can explain the excess flooding in
Flooding out.

The past.

It was wild and everybody said so at the fire.
Kids left school with leaves of paper
Still falling...the letter grades...falling.

And your father's phone was dangling
From the desk. The voice--

Everybody left that day.

Eventually a rose
Blew in our

Way. Alternatives:

No.

(One of us would have to go back.)

Living outdoors.

History has a hidden chapter--well
Several
Of great foragers and lovers
Living outdoors.

Why we don't discuss it and why
Better biographies
Were never written must better
Be explained.

It is not as though our intellects or best
Our eyes
Failed to note... In a drainage
Ditch

For example

We found bones bleached at chew points,
Rusting golden
Crucifixes, hearts engraved in trees.
Nude land.

But what do you think--
Who was here before we ourselves gorged and
Retreated

From the galing directions?

Preposterous.

We may never pass this way again
But
What if...

What if memorization--
And
Not survival skills, dictates?

The gift then lies in the noticing.

See:

Everybody has a crotch at
Every turn of the body--

And each produces sweat,
Each encoded.

Someone loves you.

See, remember, work:

What if the path matted down is
Everything?

Huh?

Like we should alter our devious
Natural plans let alone

Alter our plans to discuss it...

Solubility.

We have two loves,
Neither corruptible:

The shape of it and
The strategy of our professions.

Look at the line going around the block,
Like shopping could

Corrupt, and therefore
Cure us of our...

The mystery of no science.

This is the mystery of no science
Ambulances,
Vacations in memory
And Seances.

Many diners love the taste of surprise,
Which, I admit, is nice.

But for me the fruit, the cadaverous appeal
The spice
Lies in the sense of skin.

It is as though, despite dirty plates
Girls and echoes,
This really happened.

Snow, 5:37 a.m..

The first gentle push of humanity found talent--
Stitch me up a curtain.
Make me a cane out of
Reaching wood.

Destroy the colony of moths eating me
Using sugar to fell their wings,
Using water, any heaviness really, that
Easiness to be--

To be.

Prevent, too, these caprices of magnificence
As what I build does not bleed,
But nor does it collect interest.

Allow for a before that I might
Return to it afterward,
Forgive my moment's pause,
My talent fights--it stutters.

You are awake I know,
And if awake means awake to me and
To me availed which though unlikely
Is ideal, then your talent is awake too,

Needing to correct,
By curtain or volition
A vulgarity not beholden to
Wishes.

The last drawn breath.

Years from now it will remain a marvel
To historians and their retinue
Of onlookers.

The cane that guides history will have
Prickled its way across the surface,
The shadow of the old man in tow
Like a caption will have stuttered.

Such impressive light will, rest assured,
Sustain. And those stories will
caress the dust, kiss
The magnificent difference.

How gasps will surround the relic,
And how restoration
Will seem superfluous to that fumbling
Sight:

-- the unbearable, or bearable..

Love.

The vine is alright,
Knowing enough about survival
In the humidty of the thaw

To thrive.

Even modest observation could tell you it rises at the source
And moves in each direction.

The rhizomic blur it leaves has devastated
Followers.

Now, there are groups who meet
On Tuesdays

To talk about
What next.

And truly--
They quiver and know not what--these denizens and
Desperate addicts unite
And want.


Their numbers of attendance indicate
Your menace
And that unfurling Color.

Honeymoon.

On the bare table was bread and some mackerel,
Oily and sunlit. Behind

The progenitor's portrait you found
A room.

The family, in turn,
Watched though his carved out eyes
How visitors took to things.

I don't mean spies, I mean progeny of the Firmament.

The palace.

The long table reached each end of the room.

I thought the grapes might succumb to the heat and spoil;
I ate nothing.

The curd of appetite stinks,
But in stinking hunger blossoms away
From the senses--

To finitude.


And what they hang on their walls, and what they hang on their walls

And what they hang on their walls.

Blight.

Immobile
Piece of it,

Adorned with V's for
Fives

Annotated,
Written down and
Cared for.

What did you do,
That only people, hiccupping cameras, looking to
Escape
Care for?