Poesis, like all art,
Shapes the subtle
Where attention and the senses form an action
My love there is no loss
Lost on you
Or immunity from what will be done/what we will do
Since complicity becomes
A watchword for “home”
Synonymous with witness, with shame and mercy

Now-time like an unbounded
Property we share
When everything
Turns to evening again
And allegory isn’t
A substitute for world-forming
An antidote to what’s totally administered

The social body
Conditioned by prosody
Where environmental forces dismember “me” (personation)
Is remembered by the erstwhile “lyric”
Transmuting force, stress
Re/alienating sonic values (cadence) and duration (measure)
An opening sound makes in the air
(like pores, tiny little holes)
Returning to that body organs without which
Living should become inconsolable.