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
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our local newsboy was a man
ReplyDeletea local junky now reborn
from Christ's toga thorn
space itself
is sarcastic
history
shirking
its duties
Well, Lan, it's that time of year, I guess.
Or possibly it's the whole Epoch, dunno for sure.
(Every time I come unto ye, there are signs the damage may be limited yet... if only these few billion neurons' worth... each an infinite snowflake settling upon the ocean of damage, and revising it, revising it...)