By - Mar 1, 2017



The rain

distributes within the world


This implies a grammar  The map

maker implying


possible trees  He says

I follow the world  The old


figure of logic places

a public and what is possible


to promise another  Imagine

all the uses of a line


between here and yonder

Now outline


the figure of a bruise





A thing becomes



Rarely  A

girl fifteenish and


final the woman behind

deliberate eyes



of her exemplary eyes


And there

is here design  How who gets


and in whose line  A stall

and its keepers


Our hurt built

no scarcity of it  Enough


to say there were eyes

then  Facilities


we were wading to





I was

okay  In the stall of


world  Not history


but I

when I say I


mean this bit

of world



So away from me


We don’t carry history

we foam


it  We are it

History I mean


is an antagony

of two hands in the sink


something foaming

And a woman saying


this is not your

room  And alone


you wanting to be

a thing just







I don’t care what

you believe


about ash

how it settles


to some

thing less than form  Tonight


there is only

wood  Its structure


black night

ached with blue


What we have

to do





A creature of such purchase

when dead  Whose purchase


to mourn the dead  Remember

2014  September


or November  Any month

the same really  Like anyone


working at the street  A bar

Free drinks


from the creeps at the bar

But together


A laugh lodged in the air

Taste of blood copper rain


This existence  Sister

a kind of theft  Wanting


nothing going anywhere  When

you left the rains


again picking

up  I haven’t been the same





With grace I am

with you


in your labor

until the last  And I am joyful


today for its structure

Machinery clipping the master’s


hand  How impossible it is

the trees have changed