being a viewer, one experiences a failure
to outthink in the street in the hollow air
even one visible egg. a legible edge goes farther
without defect into “twine” or “mice” or “dark lake”
to begin one’s disintegrating possession from glass
to dirt. how can falling apart possibly go wrong
when one lucid point calms the water. one owns
one’s named stars with antiseptic currency,
wearing them out, naming the hovering
in the asylum whirlpool in order to sing oneself
blind, zeroing in on one’s eyes, unprepared
to jettison vacancy. reform starlight nothing. one
can’t decide or say, incurable speech too late to embrace
context. one leaves the study of floor variations
to bare feet without a thought, elbows on breezes,
breath tracing a song’s fragments from shape
to shape, to flex the monotone, being comfortable
with loss, tearing the seals in advance of an image.
chatter like numberless rice grains scatters
in the notorious but radiant gap in the dark, waiting
for a rough appearance to pause in space long enough
to become burdened with a fool’s event. who’d
want it anyway during a flood of present light. already
a thing like a lark against an open field
terrifies one’s intentions, & aberrations rush in
to rescue effortless dialogues. one
would want, just in case, to recreate the velocity
of retreating objects, the branch in every corner,
the soothing banners. one would want to be coaxed,
like one’s blind twin, in from the pretend rain.
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