This is what I know:
you will renegotiate
your contract with skin.
This is what I know:
From moment to memory to moment, time moves back and forth, taking us with it.
The spark and the seed and the sea. It’s a journey of a thousand words.
Finally, you will find the perfect name, and city, and reason to spill ink onto paper.
All your life: the sky will trace the outline of your body.
Bloodless. A person unfolds
from place to place.
but how many times?
same as to erase, efface, remove
as in a fugue [to explode a theory]
(ideas, culture, etc.) as of juice
a pressing out into words.
in a plain and definite way. a photograph
showing what has happened before.
same as gunpowder.
in proper sequence. 494
through 495 (explicitly)
a feeling not extinct. there should be
no doubt as to the meaning.
half of her photographs are still hidden under the mattress.
the other half have been cut by scissors.
someone should thank whoever
invented smokless candles. and
she walks in barefeet thru pilsen.
i return the mason jar filled with pus to the windowsill.
the ticket stub to the jean pocket.
she comes home talking about the ineffable rainwater.
but this is a joke.
told better by another voice.
I am stitched
into the fabric
of classic american traffic.
I have my finger
on a map made
from internet debris.
If tonight I find myself
struggling to write my own
attempt at forgiveness.
Then I will find nothing
but my own muscles
trying to lift something
they could never carry.
Perform yourself. Circa this morning
2014. Assembled approximately
after 27 years. More or less erased and
then resketched. Your smooth escape
in and out of your own body.
A jawline of stubble to evoke a carnivore’s
contemplation. A pair of green eyes to express
a pair of sharpened scissors.
Face the wind. The sensation of
falling. Have another drive to work.
Find yourself, once again,
in the middle of the ritual; this is where
you become beautiful.
Have another look at the morning sky.
Don’t use the word: “Asunder”
Use the word: “Blossom.”
Bandage the bleeding sun.
This is the promise of each new day.
That every “good-bye” will become
I recognize my shadow in the evening sun. I recognize my voice
in the breeze at dusk. I recognize my hopes in the birds that fly in
and out of sight. In and out of sight. In and out. Like a needle and
thread. Pulling two separate pieces together.