Wednesday, December 29, 2010

damage control

a house can sit like that
in the pale cold light
for years
nobody approaches
or that what registers
is the small unique theater
of a mouse touching a stick
how it got there
becomes


one of us
becoming

the stick says
i am just the martial artist
of beneath the waves
mecha-nick-slot
the horseback owl
cloth
rubbed with lantern
in the pale cold light
for years
nobody approaches

10 beds upstairs
sit silent

before it died
we met its name in opposite
genders

but the marked perimeter
of its yard

lame oblong thing
now festooned
by the running and indifferent
threes and trees

white oval volume
romantic claim is lipless
daft
sucking

our local newsboy was a man
a local junky now reborn
from Christ's toga thorn

space itself
is sarcastic

history
shirking
its duties