And coming clean. Constellations of dark drunkenness. Coming on. Whose blue contemporary
Getting wider overhead, overheard us. Piled in so much dark. And bits of bruising shimmer, don’t go
When morning makes way. Sighs. Make this personal. Counterfeits the back of your head in dreams
We had of each other. Goes on composing his late quartets? Tho, and he says fear is fear. Pursuit.
Could the sentence be inside itself. Kicking up dirt in your father’s side-by-side. And so many things
Echoing. Tears are like it. Requiring something of the hands. As 42.511736° N, 70.906861° W 
Or 42.6550° N, 86.2020° W. Is red dragon on so long stretch. Bitter over someone? Make this 
Impersonal. Another Ballad for Heavy Lids. Just the koan that makes giveable the moon. Is our birth
Month July. Clouds really can stop that sunlight coming thru. A gaptooth noumena. Not so much
According to lovers of all those highway pearls. And being that we are so simply peached. Who
Tattled. It’s the only way. Its wilder disclosures. One dislocated speaking. Is not expression but
Invasion. The only way our mouths move is that we move them and something goes in, too. 

It will prevent its own subtlety. Named her hearkening, heat. It was now moonlight all 
Over, going over it, going over me, dizzy. Will you avocet, patience. Will you titmouse, charity.
In the “Poetics of Space” Bachelard does not mention the ribcage of just one woman. Oh, tiny theo-
Logian. I am six o’clock in your breastbones. The Jew in her petty frock-coat. Everything bears its
Relation to a causa prima. We said so. Can we get the red grapes. Jesus, they aren’t even red!
Hot white Frank. The sounds swell in the ear when nothing usurps the noise. Name this. Here,
Not in its elsewhere. The endless calculus of a hand reaching. It’s in our head. Stuck there?
Or-or so-something to-TO St-stop a-and Ne-Never Sa-say A a Wo-word Aagain. In that one painting
You will notice the flower covers a woman’s face. And in that one a man and a woman have their faces
Covered (and they are kissing), as they kiss thru the fabric of the cloth. Remind us: we have forgotten
What we have forgotten, and not only that, but that we have forgotten what we have forgotten. 
Born in a hurry? There’s a German word for this. Your hands all over me.

Forgiveness, then. We have established that the appearance in the body of the body is not what they
Meant. Wondering if you can hold your breath for 12 minutes is not the holding of your breath. 
But, if I am allowed to remove, in front of you, my socks and shoes. How about the window lights. 
Collectively, she said, some oblique positions of the heart in this post-romantic age. Sans grief. Sans
Tabor. What is the wish fulfillment of why. Handling it. Eventually mishanding. Trading a pair
Of my underwear for your posthumous Sappho. Asking if violence is implied. Not becoming a sure
Way to misjudge all of our first steps. Forgiveness, then, must be a creature comfort. Oh medicine!
With terrible proximities to winter. The vagina, the one penised. Image representing muscles
In the throat. Cooperation? Another collects her dreams. So many limbs becoming themselves
In awkward dis-belief. Or mild dislike of a word just said. Remember saying? Caryatid of the neck. 
Here. I. Or hope in the split flower. Question. Faith in any arms holding. Question. Love woman. 
Question. Risk of some terrible becomingness, and not the water, running up and down. Question. 

When we fill it with wondering. A remarkable, fucking geometry. Grasshoppers and cicadas slowly.
A wild orchestration on its verge. Godspeed, you, to terror. Biting at travel systems invented 
By the French. Such as will. Studies of roundness. Revolt on the matter of a thing that is what it
Negates. Poppies. Daydreams. The slick curve of the small of your back resolves itself in dimples.
We ask ourselves: “have we really listened to the Nocturnes?” This rock appears to be a soapstone. 
Bruv. No humor is sufficient for a lack of objects b thru z. Kiss me. Retreats into it. Escape
On the line. For another dislike. How the sickening of boundaries would suggest we cannot move. 
You only need to ask. Question. Numerology in the plays of Sarah Kane. A bit presumptive. 
To not, at least, to think of the figuring of one’s own hands submerged in one’s own hands. Super-
Imposed largesse. Treatment of horses in the worst November. Then the THE LIGHTS appearing
And revealing over and over. Infractions. What is mistake and accident. This close to something.
Seeing a face on a surface that does not stop. A face. Still as the light is still right now. 

Memories are not capable of the butterfly stroke, a demanding and rather strenuous
Swimming style. What I have hidden. If you have ever noticed the ghost of the bloodrush
In your eyes, how the fish of the light is bending. And secret. And the rarity of right angle. Who will
Have kissed feet. Atom of child, terrible nucleus of boy, beginning defensively, in the womb.
This is Austrian piano. How, tho many siblings have murdered themselves. We cannot wonder.
But if humming is not the appropriate answer. How, tho the sound is living in the sound. He said,
What a scary word. Localization of various genii. The rub. Peculiarity in the blue fear. Its great
Honey. Will have witnessed this gallery of anonymous obsessions. The legs so far apart, the ankles. 
He beareth (an insertion). Proper by the name of. He beareth (another). Or by the name of.
Their interactions. He and I will have mixed too much. Not always matter thru finding. Vapors
Extracted from a vicious flame. Heaves of Netherlandish light. That jazzy sky. Despising. 
Do not become bored. The light bending a back bending the hands. Is that disease leading 

To the conformity of once felt feeling. Tolerance break, then: invocation. You wild chervil boy.
Small of the water. A suicide suite. Will now spell the words “and become awfully dizzy.”
Which is not the Giacometti of belief. Is even an accident. Tho steady on. About the Central
Committee. Pasted in the likeness of a pinkest. If it bears the title of the accidental face in all
Things. Adonai? One from adept. We can now sit crisscrossed and fathom it. Become, thou certain
Phenomenal direction. Thou bourgeois sauvage. A simple eye needing the likeness of its other.
So much for lacking lust in the THE LIGHTS. The hope in some orange desire is not a remedy
For sky-ish configurations, no matter how red, how violet. It is an exclamation that always calms
Itself. How terror. How a diminutive. A word privileged by repetition is not the beginning. Tho
The sands are bitten in time’s mouth, chewed with remarkable slowness, given our day off, given
The last day. Have you wondered about our here. When seeing fails we are permitted to look
Around. 

1

Not the father of my father. It is white tack-a-wack. The night conjoins,
Is stubborn, refutes me. A bit of the old brandy’s wilder intoxicating fumes.
The Korean of my century’s past is dead in New York. How does she visit.
The violets go up, are let go of. It is man prolonging the sudden prone
Embarrassment of his penis. The delft irides. Is a darling darling darling love.
Who goes when to search time, finds intractable wantingness, the salt-map wave
Scars, scarifies. The dark catastrophe of a bosom in language, is a word. 1995,
Three days go by thru the incubation tank. Collapsed lungs. A haywire birth
Is the umbilical cord wrapped about the neck. But where is that umbilical cord. 
One makes a note of a super-structuralism: Memory, like “bitch,” is “she.” 
The faultline? Yesterday we sat in our room and misheard Saturn. You tie 
Your laces left to right. Leaves become large and terrible. I am sick with wonder.

Who is the ambient thought. We found delicious the nuance of your parlor tricks.
A banana is only the yellow curving. I cannot be here. So what does a man make of
Things. The conjunctivae. A minor testament flickering thru your salt lips. The word
“Lie” prefigures another kind of bewilderment. Then one must question the blue world
In which she lives. O? Is that all. When it stands to reason that we are un-sure, uncertain,
Unidentified, united, untied, un-titled. So we go that way. Lines on the thighs of women
Reveal a blank discourse. God is not elaborated. But so says the little, grape-eyed lemur. 
One will not have to go looking for the sounds of pygmies. In Poland there are many
Sanitoriums, all with white walls and beige walls and off-white walls. Hope is not 
How one dresses. In pidgin there is a whole labor of movement in words. Where is Guangzhou.
Take your Sarrasine, Zambinello. I shall be here, counting the impossible line between you.
We cannot manage the accretions. Europa, Ganymede, with so much subsurface water.

A book is a collaboration of petty madnesses. I hit this cigarette with my gapteeth. 
I am like a long stretch of highway with so few lights. The river of the highway is red 
With longing, the way it rushes terrifies me, and I grow nervous with thinking: about water, 
The bottom of the water, drowning, being found, and the hour, like the river:
Is red, and the THE LIGHTS break open inside me, remind me, remind me. And where it is.
Professor Deere, balding, once said Heidegger was not a mystic, and nobody smart enough
Could say otherwise, otherwise they would have, and thus Heidegger would have been a mystic. 
A tree keeping time becomes green. Amateur! You say this is a song for yourself? Bark 
Psychosis. A suicide nude. We have to go begging for quite some time before they take it all away.
She is coda. This is not the color of an apple. She is prologue. This is not the sound of a wave.
Some of the water is beautiful. One is distinguishing. Some of the water darkens at the bottom
Of the light. One is distributing. Some of the water becomes water becomes water becomes water.


2

The central fuck. One walks on Lucy Ave and discovers one’s childhood home. There is so little Memory. I do not wash my face with the bitter water of the ocean. He does not rest 
In the middle light. She checks the impossible lines of her hand, and what does she find. 
Standing at the edge of her boudoir the frightened, dilapidated coasts all scarred 
With remembering. Symphonies are tireless in that they never begin. Just there. Just there, 
Almost there. We will not come to pass. Something will end everything. Angel of terror, 
Come down and take this territory. Oh, what a lovely rock you’ve got there. Oh, and what a lovely 
Thought you’ve got there. See? It is an appeal, when the night terrors set in, and the hand 
Clutches the head, and the sounds diffuse, and the ringing, and the ringing. Hello! 
It is the obvious word that bends time. No poetics after 10. She will take her water neat.
Stevens said it could kill a man. But what of that poem of the dirty girl eating chocolates. 
Oh, I like that one. 

He would have loved to write a story where nothing happens, teasing apart the wings of a moth.
In downtown Boston you will find at least one woman who knows the meaning of the word
Naiad. The sex does not look great in certain configurations of light. But we must remember
To place our belongings in roughly the same spot every night or else habits will form. I cannot
Be overtaken by despair. Veritable sources have declared that Love is not a chemical reaction
In the universe, nor a cosmic reaction in the brain. But then again the hollyhocks this time 
Of year are capable of me. What is the full sentence of the word. Time is the only belligerent 
In a civil war. Mother, if we are becoming you, how long before we become your mother,
And your mother’s mother. Such are the barbarics. I would like to pretend to be a little ghost.
Drink from the water with my knees on the ground. Of course one cannot fall laying down
In the summer. It is this protracted lament that makes our eyes see the ruby. Woman passes
Her fingers over woman’s chest. The friction is so scarce we wonder what is being set on fire. 

A fuckable city. With so few things to do if you do not have friends or lovers that can dress
The dress, blue. Is there another word for word. Enough with your games, Wittgenstein! 
The itch is felt somewhere in the itch. And 8 is not the perfect symbol, but 0. Ha! One
Establishes a truth by letting go. None of it can use all of the energy, except “Uh-huh” 
And “Hmm” which are not sounds but words without permission. It has taken nothing
To explode. Uh-huh, god windowshopping for the perfect universe, I know. But then who
Is not a whom but a long, lugubrious miao. How to achieve the perfect tone, if not by tightenings
And loosenings of knobs. But then the castrato cannot take cigars, cigarillos, smokes, hash. 
The Actual Blood. He said “Don’t give them everything. They don’t deserve it.” But then
Half of the blood was everyone’s. Saying, some species of frog have 6 pairs of eyes. 
Not a glass delusion. We heard Gastr Del Sol play “Our Exquisite Replica of ‘Eternity.’”
A fragile thing bearing a strong resemblance to a thing that is sturdy.

Bringing back the cheetah print. Surely, Horus must figure in the lineage of poets, father
To speech, non-speech, which is not the same as silence, and tinnitus, which is not the same
As noise. How long to wean off the supple breast of sound. There is something in the landmine
That makes for good material. A drone will seek out the warmth of a hostile figure. And lately, 
We have grown fonder of a blue justice. Understanding requires so little of the legs.
I am thinking of a dark wine to pair with your broken set of foretastes. To say “A beautiful rapier”
Is not the same as to say “A splendid rapier.” Which cuts better. Oh, to hell with Ponge.
Bring me the thing that has always been speaking. Out of a refusal to be diminished. Feeling
A long while about Colville’s “Pacific.” You tested your teeth on a bit of the humid South. 
While learning of the butterfly’s memory. There must be something incestuous in the words: to be
And being. One will have to rest their heart a while in the cavity before the possibility of a transplant.
No one has ever given a name to a miasma. Tho there have been uncanny resemblances. 


3

Theresa will die at 31. Theresa will be read at 31. Apophenia is symptomatic of apophenia. 
You hold out for a joyride. One thing occurring in the brain is not the recurrence of certain sounds.
Imagine you are a penny whistle. Imagine you are a tin whistle. Imagine you are simple 
Six-holed woodwind instrument and a type of fipple flute. She dogsears. If it is possible to retain
A sense of beauty, Christianity, boyhood, it is done so only by what is called “great effort.”
We’re thinking é in English. Meanwhile, apophenia is a condition which is addressed by its full name. 
I will answer all questions, simply, and tell you I do not know. The sycophant is only dreaming
Of a wonderful red sensuality. How to love. Oh, but tell the story, will you. Of the THE LIGHTS. 
White cheek. The ring that was taken and given back. Quando cada coisa tem um instante. 
She will not dream of her sleeves. Plums. Before math. The Cytherean slips from terrible garb
Into greater nakedness. It is Atlantic, what fades across her hands. We are standing in the wild, black
Beginning, counting heads in the upswell. All this water. Is it all, only what moves across her hands. 

It is not possible to approach the sex at bad angles. One has to undo something in order
To arrive at some semblance of Truth. We will get sick of this. A rock overgrown with haiku. 
So many things on or about the luminous things. It looks a bit like a bar of lavender soap, tho we 
Have guessed the part about the lavender. Do not kill. Surely, we have a case of the right words in
The right order. But then again she thinks or imagines that she is callipygian. As in Eco’s “Travels
in Hyperreality.” Do you know the one about the impossible blue. Curiosity must have been invented
Before the arrival of the italic text. He will now perform his imitation of an atoll. It cannot be “too” “Good.” If we do it ten feet apart we can do it without guilt. How many have been stopped upon cry
Of “Assassin!” Which part of vitamin deficiency is the safe-word. I do not know much about profiles
except that light tends to break. She guesses she can say she’s a call. We will get sick of all perfect
Circles. When it was homogeny that rounded down the number of all living things. When it was
A tetralogy of books all on the molecular classifications of Myxomycetes.

Was it you I took
with me to river

Was it your hand
or mine pointing

Ah we planted stones
snubbed leaves in the sand

I said what ducks are
those

Was it the dark
in the water in you or

The plain kind
of a hand pointing to

From out of the blue
smock fog

a hand
is raised as if alarmed

One sees the small
skinny landmines there, wonders No 

birds in winter
When food is served it is done so

with an orderliness that kills
the appetite

All night they come and go
and I will not remember what you said

What is it you said— moon, moon. . . .

delirium in the weather
one dark red crayon left out 

would not go down 

What moves in that death. What of its rhythm
then on the sun-stricken wild of its enormous

why. Not carried. Notwithstanding a southernness
in the heat of a friction in the air. Not this. Not

what we cannot make of dying. And so how it is 
alone. Breach of an impenetrability in the way

of things—the blind the highway the 90
miles souther—as if stopping to understand a limit

and the deformity of a line and a line. What makes
us. What of the hands holding anyone’s hands.

	Long day nakedness. Wild, wet heart
name:
	Destined desert fruit snuck in the mouth 
	so near
to burst.
	Near thing so close to me; you are a
	whiteness that trembles too; mean to bleat
	and wonder at the blood; who has called me
yearling.
	It is to quicken; then the godhead,
	like a longing river that goes red,
	is nimbed by mouth and the steadfast
stillatim
	of death-long blood; three days paulatim
	in Golgotha—
Agape! 
	the mouth rushes,
	the swallowable life is made love 
	when Love of the man is sworn
circle
	and it is 
the circle
	I swear. 
	I wear 
your name: 
	I dress the embraces of half-lights made whole;
	I manner in the world. Should I picture you?
	shall I wonder at sight of the first? 
	though you are my eyes you see myself yours when I see you
agape—
	man’s edge making fruit
	when death is the fruit I taste—
and burst.
	I go to you.
	With softened heart of eastern earth;
	with a lamb’s bright eye to the plains
	of your heart and my breast;
	with my words the names for my words,
	a blue so aweful and deep;
	with god longing the garden-longing
	speech, always in me one by one, 
	always with me one by one:
	Stilling
stillatim
	when his tears fall from my eyes
	and into my eyes the tears
of the yearling.
	O dream
of the yearling 
	takes hoof in me,
	widens in me its comfortable spring.
Slow circle
	where I rest: that ever grows
	and roots in me: like a light inside
	me everyday, like the blooming
	of an impenetrable fire
	inside me everyday, like the blooming
	flower inside me everyday, and the
	candle of the flower, and the fire
	of the flower, going over me
	inside me everyday, drips and drips,
stillatim,
	in me everyday: 
	I am
the name
	you gave me.
	O to wake to the sound of your voice, O to be in the voice!
	To eat from the fruit of your voice, and drink from the leaf
	of your voice. To wake to the sound of your voice,
to burst
	at the sound of the leaf of the fruit of your voice. 
	How then,
agape?

After the night I crawled
into the wild roots 
of a woman‘s hair 
I smelled the hideaway
 	 	 	 	—so many birds
 	 	 	 	letting go of the air
Someday I will make a nest
I will sing 	 	and the branches

Here is a dark drink in its palette of potential ruin.

All August long leaves appropriate their triangular scarcity, are scarred.

If once we become beautiful, let us hope to do it beautifully, and just once,

                          Behind this gallery of mirrors, 

                          Remember how slow our seeing is.

The hounds batter the air, recalling one another in the night’s nécessaire, bow down.

A crisscross of unfathomable things take on phosphorous proportions.

And how many deaths. How the faceted face the light in the brief of believe.                 

In the rent of a woman’s cradle a man has only to disguise himself.

And if the tears come, let them come, a while, all at once. 

None of the old impulses, none of the lavender, a neck. 

And if ever he has need for light— he needn’t ask 

              Does it listen, clinging

To these foothills, as it does, with greater ambiguity. 

We have disassembled the clinging

Need. Ruminants roar their lofty inquisitions. Things continue, 

                            Can disappear. In the sleeping in, 

                            Even in the violet, velvet

Verge, fawns pass here and there, and do not pause.               

Tiny corner in the seen
tho what is dreaming? Face

your face

is proximity
in the hazel-eyed you?

Retreats blonde
unnamed of the remind evening

and takes
Bitten, takes 

A violent impulse
in this 		heat— 
lovers manage all sorts
of chemical exchanges . . . . 

the cats too preoccupied
in the windows with the curtains 
miss the light

behind it and behind the glass
summer conspiring
to defeat air

Tho, here we call—everything
for how it is named?

A violent impulse
in this		heat— 
lovers manage . . . .

all of the indefatigable
facts		Slumped in the dead
			light 

of one last spectacular freedom

Light in this deep → hope in the ecstasy of waiting or was it → There is this about wanting & the light → the vapors are abstract the fish at the surface of the surface of the water swim in small circles but we hardly notice & to say we hardly notice is its own kind of desire → To say then what unknown influence → All manner of life has been circumscribed & of wanting of little wanting down → We will get it down → here is my hand guiding your hand in the impossible reaching back towards me →

But if I was biting
& lake was just your eyes
in hyacinth time, what then

See this pressure is only light

O wild underwater thought
O that fire turning thru it— 

God! → to be its ampersand → like looking & seeing → like remembering & forgetting → Ah! & then to be that last green ordinary yawn of that green-blue darkening of night & the night → To drop from these clothes in the pale bowl of forms → O violet repose in the electric shadow of disbelief → in it → our silence & the terrific → flower

What goes on up there must— 
in this pity of landlocked light
—conform 
           to the unfathomable boundary

of speech
which only now, in us, is half-
           anonymous

and terrible. Because we do not speak?

           Or goes missing—stops in the blank

dark throat of wilderness, O darkness! 
Which cannot wonder, does not think—

nor feel for itself
in this great surge
           that is ours, our oncoming bewilderment. . .  

my hand in your awfully still hand.

SENSITIVITY


Wildwood? Then the feeling. oh green 
ecstasy of wading 	And the reaching!
Some coming along with their hands thru
the dark ‘A bit untamed’
		the practice of water
up there that simply glow. Voices from the river.
My body in a dead heat of voices saying saying
is the river this water 

WEEK


Terrible leaf. So big and calm
and in the breeze		Where there 
is room
Heart in the leaf
Half heart, its half 
And is good

Soft

NAME


Please have you seen the lake, or please
when it is in me. with no words

and it is me the birds running over it
In mini circles, O what sorts of birds!
their long calling. The slow

GREEN BATHING SUIT


How do you move your simple hands 
This silk summer how the memory thru— 
	The clear legs your feet pulling
	Inward aside water

Overnight, or coming up then
With pity. . . 	     O of softness
When the child’s tears fall from
His father’s eyes

Long since and the day is.

For one bright Cancerian summer. . . 
Whose apple apple
Blue center of the apple

And not for a lack of a miniature desire
Or the one bloodrush before 
A cold sets in. We are bent that way
Known viciously. Heaps
	Of a wracked arcanum
Are minor testaments of foolishness
And faith—they frighten easily

At everything. Girl with your Long Ago
Blonded by the West, you ill-
	Afford your absence, linger
Once-won longing, some lossless lingerie

We got nothing for giving and gave out

But slowly—Darling—

The blue Bedouin dress was made
Of hemp and is cold
The night moves without our wondering
Rain usurps the thought of thinking, does not rain

This, the invincible evening, says yes at what we say,
And hides no more the place name of this, too, our heart.
I am wild in it; I see nothing that the world can’t show me,

I coo. Who is not on display? I am widest awake. I will
Kiss what feels, kill what hurt, what hurts. You, fateful
Twilighting night, are like the last. There are so many— 

Their appearance the silver absence of all that happens,
And when seeing fails I look around. Who has had a lovely idea?
We are not the only made up thing. 

Not this particular sky, not this slow thing, going where it goes.
Not the air this early in the morning. 

But the question remains: how to empty
Something and make room for something else?

We fold the darkness for a blank space,
I manage some ice in the virgin glass—

Of the inner self, I imagine a woman
Going over it slowly with one soft hand.

The pictures do not align. The self
Is not made wholly of its own self.

And not this sunlight coming through,
Slowly, as the clouds part, glowing today.