Sunday morning at the library
missing
antecedents
hackneyed with lighter versions
of themselves
this last and ever
over an empire’s safety
the reaching
of his trident
15 of them
in antiquated paces
these faces are gifts
operating at the loose ends
I’m sure you survived
wielding down the road
sleep this size again: fists under water
and from this, historians
constantly checking the city
sleeping on the church
bound in Coptic measure
the push-pull
admission of a pear
or drunkard flailing cobblestones
my accent, the way poverty
encrusts a lady minor
down to God’s fighting
his long-awaited golden stilts
to the hospice without power
elders respirating
in tubes
why bring them out onto the ground
why humiliate their leglessness
for a few volunteers
to meddle with
such a pathetic watering
of a backgammon page
a dumpster
purge to puddle, that violence
their May lives
just the measure of
spools
your curious eyes brought forward
into dice museums
moaning in
apparent reprimand
referencing the census again
how they
pursue their best interests
say they found the smog songs in the tree hollows
even park in the garage for free
I know this knot under prominent suspicion
free radicals find it strange
whence they come
respirating the interior
of her tribal patterns, judging her peeling paint
itching knowledge
you know
because they never turn their lights off
alibi is still an album
one iota of a gate
made of
that is
what is fallen
above all else having ink
I cleverly have fuel
this already cryptic swimming hole
above our lives
the corollary: taking down false letters, falsetto
to look from the self portrait’s point of view
the hardest thing is to manufacture
to make sense of what you’re talking about
the erasure of ambitions, arcs, crests, erasures and globes
and so the lesson, the really open one
remitted not by an expert
with arrows crying in oversimplification
that the wreck must step away
from itself
its temporary employees not mess
with this organ deck
but evasions, broken and colored 80s chairs
not relying but leveled
history written from
a patient’s point of
view
fighting inside all those cells
their mutinies
abutting emphases
not in this but a strata, a state
wherein attention lies
neither tranquil nor permanent
entering itself
raving in the room
he is the central plumber
not escaping buildings
nor evaporating
but blocking out the jetty
in spiral choreographs
a how-to story destined through
crystalline boy sounds
mimicking pursuits
the latch left open
that is
what’s left
heartless yet old
and funded
into the derivative bridgegrooms of
the actual
extending toward your eyes
and real fingers
God-like in bulbs
momentary like the Mayflower
that’s what it looks like
selected bibliographers laughing
on a walk together
such curious cameras
making a medieval body in air
unobstructed
or at least at the right moment
since this lateral, then, is nothing— a breach
toward do not touch
but it is damp
of his pupils
of a pen’s fish
disintegrating
the chain-rope making it easier
for the umbrella unannounced
large language found still in air
itself
a narrative now learning from the words
to drop and
keep dropping
after the buzzards have gyrated
a song and dance well-done
flouting their buckets back to orbit
to self-use
colliding here
and all of a sudden, non-existent space
opens up
for imagination and attention to occupy
an endless stream, cords of winter
riding down with time
cold as air condensed
anything but feet walking
collar and beam
you and Cicero have it all
at the party
forceful barrels of his breath
chosen and lost
each stanza being fully his and your last room
