the pleasure you feel pouring a gallon
consciousness like water from a stone.
Like a drug leaking into your system,
The habit of arriving later than the sea.
In those sketches, the audible work
a concrete ball whose intensity is suspense.
of life depart from different stations.
As solid yet scattered as factories
in undesireable ways. The shyness of boxers
a beast that eats itself, the radical depth
singing, sleep inside a sleeve.
fashion. In the embarrassed silence,
Contiguous states shadowed by death, sex,
Mothers as saints. The cold wind on your
plunge. The romantic equation changes.
It's difficult to say which is more ironic:
Sooner or later, you tire of gravitation,
of resemblance. To know is to scatter.
a generation raised entirely in the dark
of creation. Not to mention "the final
Painting's dark side. Nothing that isn't.
with the chase, when they were both
in the arms of overcoats, on bare
Facing inward, idols line the coast.
into piles. At landscape's edge,
a chill reminder of quiet children.
Your legs are numb as that. In a hoarse
It's hard to push blood back into a wound.