the yellow tinged with cyan primal coat
the gingerale, a mother figure at first all face
the existence that is a continuance
and extinction, a malted or smoothie
of the brain freeze, long spinal stretch, and ice age of knowing you, Creator
rile and denial of the human animal
buzz saw and honeybee of our correspondence
I reacted to
not unregretfully, it was
carried back
unsigned I am
writing you no more
often lies run
a little backwards
in this missive oblivion
where synapse thinks it saw a spirit
equators shiver
across to one another
golden tanager and cock-of-the-block
roareth in the revolution
on the earth’s surface I know
moment to moment half
to one third of all thought
is cat vomit really in the middle of the night
while it was supposed to be medicinal
to eat the grass this bristly
prelapsarian keyhole of a hut where my finger
lingers as you row by
is that all
to perception You are like
privileged Ivy League
assessing me I am
another
white thing
that little eggshell still stuck on my blouse
I cracked out of you I see that now
in this skirt rose-splashed, bereft of aura
I love my tiny part Neanderthal DNA
left, cast-off I go bootless into lyric structures
dump’s clear containers
There may have been someone who loved you
more than you loved saving
that’s how you got on this road
and so disfigured
in land, in word
standing like a crucifix on a porch while the cars go by
Where to put last century’s threadbare Sunday dress with arms uplift
and begin to strut a bit
between star and tar
Celestial nest, also like stress, hormone, breathing with high peaks
skeletal sensory too, combustible planetarium,
an interstitial musculature where
ceiling angels peel and flake a weather
turned glassy in which you
are the shaken narrator bundled up
taking a few trips around the block, running one loose hand over
the increasingly familiar hedges
for what have you done
that so many run to surround and warm
you, a boy and girl so porous with the air,
lunar, earthly, I try very hard to never close the parenthesis on you,
it’s one way to atone
for perhaps you are just swimming
slowly to another scribe waiting
sort of perpendicularly in the lake near the shore
maybe that’s what
time is
under shaded oak tree’s co-substantiates
the numbers of the house we come to find
all the while realism’s steady message—
someone really loves someone and then doesn’t—
someone can almost read a name
your sinister math these fits and starts get chalked
then smudged away
into grey otherworldly cloud
on sidewalk’s cracked bodice
despite great gusts of pressure