THEY SAID THE SMALLEST WOODEN HORSE WAS DEAD IN YOUR COSTUME
gone unnoticed the inevitable protagonists accrue
fragile centipede working rot into unreliable endnotes
a storm, cicadas, ribbons of smoke above the river
somewhere else a war
light falls as usual
& the hour fails to be episodic
in the most expensive suit I’ve ever worn
****
A POINT OF VIEW APART FROM A PERSONAL EMBRACE
watching the unfolding of an envelope
a red thread from a felt purse
landscape pulled in increments
or another anchor to architecture love
to the voice-over of someone older
if this desire for narrative outweighed
our unwillingness to concede an end
****
TO MAP THE WEARING AWAY OF THINGS
what endows an anecdote with so much tinder
a particular tree in how light fell
how human nouns what the nucleus of commerce won’t replicate
the world in a real enough window
money made of money a bare ankle
pacing from the vault to the podium
to fasten the world a believable cape
****
THE FOREST BURNS INTO LATER TIME
all that I saw from the balcony
an evening’s warranted fiction yoked
little lamb that gathers & gathers against a half-eaten idea
I’m writing from the weather
inside a dictionary of difficult words
details solidify with each retelling
but someone coughs & the theater caves in
****
NOTHING UNDER THE STONES BUT THE STORY OF LIFTING
in one scene we stood on a bridge
watching boats catch in their sails late wedges of light
there was grace, ease a hero’s mask assembled
from an hour’s background music
our inclination to trail a supposed mother toward the concrete
a crow calls out its lineage in a single note
a surrogate thorn an imperfect Xerox
****
A DUE MEASURE OF DURATION
already dusk bringing a different feeling
to the scuttle of leaves, billboards outlining the city
outliving directives in a little book of prayers
a cue to place the pencil down & wait
for the refrain to repeat itself
somehow we sustain history
one hand making a fist, two a steeple
****
ONE EVENT COLLAPSES INTO ANOTHER'S UNSAID
an evening worn on the locality of thinking
imagined as a tactile day-moon
unanchored as I am
by letters, books, creased sheet music
cicadas’ shells lodged between lengths of sawed lumber
the public they, gloved in expectancy
O sweet Rashomon, it is thick & manageable & perpetual
****
IT WAS RAINING NEAR DUSK & I WAS STILL READING
from a window painted shut to a woodcut
of the player’s fingers nailed to a flute
beautiful as laugh tracks alone with our wallets
I’d call you uncomfortable in dress shoes
while the night comes undone waiting
still there is lightning & inevitable rot
the pronoun’s shadow—its dark lake
****
SIMPLE AS A WALL PAINTED BLUE
scaled from sovereignty to ethos
the logic of a button worn from overuse
I’d change my shirt to say “story of the day”
like a coin that previously fit the slot no longer deserving
another city’s disorder or the bird’s moronic circles
evolving a gentle etymology of sky
memory handles what comes to sister missing
****
FIGURATION IN CONFLICT WITH AN AFTERNOON
whose you is a whisper all verb
whose you a child’s hair in flames
whose you is replacing a curtain
whose you is thickening the mortar
whose you imprinting a beating heart
whose you aged a flower
who found it dried in the center of a book
****
AN APPROXIMATION OF THE ACTUAL LETTER
I died in a book
& couldn’t touch the ink around me
it was autumn
I died in a book asking
the word for leaf for leave
I died in a book on the eve of music
in the distance, another distance
****
IF THERE IS ALWAYS A ROOM'S REVERSAL OF EVENTS
a painted over presence from ear to understanding
what won’t wash in the agreed upon outcome
of a stand-in for our refusal of silhouettes
spilling momentous into scenery
a still life not so gone to greener pastures
that I can’t forgive myself an afternoon
unlocked unbroken untangled unaired
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