An Old Song


That gesture, giving, wave-like, events and names on the curl. Floating sun water. I can't stop tumbling forward. The momentum of water. The starry stony deep meditating on its warm hands. Lifted, a cabinet, a chest, on its side, dusting the roof of a school girl's jacket. White thorns cut my face. Tulip trees turn their ears to listen.

Beautiful duchess, spin air, sighs, flowered brambles, my knowledge of splintered water. "And from the depths, Odysseus..." Virgin spindles croak through the waving station. A pier. Your family, plastered on an alloy train, departs. My hands of sepia. Midas drenched in orchards.

A rope descends in such a way as to make the stage real. Ten thousand eyes on a plastic box. And inside this box, a tiny bit of sky formed into thighs.

When your hair meets dusk, I am a pin coming through a wooden box camera. Inside, a sheet of celluloid speaks to your ghosts. There is then, a wave machine, working. Vacationers retreat to baton down their locks. Wind gestures toward the sound. Leander’s out-stretched arm loves Hero’s lapping.

permission is neither light nor heavy


poles across a promenade
the purchasing of a clock which ticks

I will turn this thought
into a landscape

open field
open field
open field
(but it is really an atoll)

the nearest building to Wittgenstein’s home
was reportedly 60 feet away

between the structures stood the following
four street corners
a curb
a gas lamp

stacked, a week’s worth of clothes weigh barely a pound