O’Connor

wounded, synovial
hanging laundry on the line
the scrim fear that emotions may continue indefinitely

he hit her with his bag
the barn is shaped like a collapsed hat
the layer I reach my hand through
is a public fountain in the Natural Science museum
in the basement, at the Food Court

the air between his joints: can it be wounded?
the regret that lasts, that stretches out like a sidewalk
the clamping springs of an excavation
there were 15 people on his back
now there are 13

limping, synovial
one pulls things out of a poem, one does not put them in
the motes around the deer’s head, lit and cold
the strung boy’s shoes tilting toward Wyoming

I have strung many things including lights
words are furrowed and implicated with echo
soldiers are entrenched: here, here and here

the pre-event, the deer’s inception
its penny framed in the social, that glass
crumpled behind one's ear

nodules are important, synovial
in front of the wall, someone typing
behind the deer a deteriorating barn

he called for someone because he had been freed from a gravity
he called for someone because the deer was collapsing
lines can be light when all they hold is paper

11 o’clock and this blue door and console
water tends to condense
she heard the voice of an evaporating scarecrow in the forest
she heard a voice which was familiar