alone in the house
with few sounds
sometimes an
insect bumping into
the panes
pouring over maps
stacking books
just so
the breeze
sucks my hands
out the window
living in this
smashed down
skyline
it's been easier
to write
nothing at all
avoiding language
by moving it
in heaps
around the room
this morning
it won't lie still
barking out of
my fingertips
until
I tell you
this is the real
beginning
every morning
love
will be pressed into
our palms
like a coin from
a doting relative
Monday, June 25, 2012
Saturday, June 9, 2012
the rough sketch of an inability to write
there are no words to eat
the city is barren
I can't see anything
poetics
lost to
to bricks
this world in the morning
is a quick heat
and feeling nothing
perhaps only a need
to be lifted up
by my hair
but what do I know
of this immaculate season?
finding things from within
is murk, like river bottom
and the last sip in the glass
the city is barren
I can't see anything
poetics
lost to
to bricks
this world in the morning
is a quick heat
and feeling nothing
perhaps only a need
to be lifted up
by my hair
but what do I know
of this immaculate season?
finding things from within
is murk, like river bottom
and the last sip in the glass
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