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