If I am not what I imagine
which body segment of mine models the body.

    If then, faith’s
unsafe. And of this let me continue: rain today.

Leaves remember green again. While at watch
the outside stamps itself grain like linen,
of each object emboss air.

A bramble of coiled twig, left
        some bougainvillea,
will later pare Spring. Beside the sidewalk
       a couple dog stroll, crooked
                   like a branch

           the wind tries straightening;
like shadows forced against people I am against
as well when left alone.
           Like of an off-shade laundry load
lying under the, then, clean clothing.
                                    Whose tone smelled cold;
when cold would drink itself in bright night
           where the party felt new again, detached
humor renewed beyond its funeral.
  Where any color
too familiar to wear, that great green thrift-shirt
gone half-off Friday
                            can keep a body ice-cubed.





By the way, your shoes match. All blurred red
collapsing around your feet. Each button
                                             a statement of style.
Which, is to say, timeless-                     your shoes
uncloaked by irreparable clarity.
      Shortly after
we elsewhere practice flying yesterday
 by string, into present for a first time-
we picnic. We fly character kites:
and Charlie Brown. The back and forth of wind,
making you run as though quick again,
cracks light upon itself. You find sky nothing;
          you ask for less except for now—

you leap in sideway, roller-coaster arms
stretching con brio yet slow, conducting to me
       what you had found, what will now let you
chart our getaway, then
      what we thought it was: dark humor
failing as make-believe. Processing art
in other line of work—is how to not get caught.

    We create instead of inherit damaged motion
we run to run, if we could not,
                                   you would call it ill-guilt,
blame it on memorandums on tailored memory:
our given way of escape. But you grin to hear
the different grade of speeds
between wind and myth.

Thank you for stretching all this earth around us
for us.   That and this is what I should have said
instead of
         trying to compliment footwear: thank you,
for your discovering escape.                  





                                   And there sits like flexible plastic
a heaviness between us: the interference
of calamity on our closure: strong chaotic blows.

Today the wind within fall can snap
  a separate force between our dense cloth sweat.
The benches seem to scream at day cracked branches
scraping across wooden planks and I cannot help feel
  as screamed under.

Street musicians also appear cleaned by the wind in which
  each woodwind will blare against.

Legs move throughout the map of a sidewalk; with it
lying under more noise. Walking on top, a mouth
                                      could say no while a body says no,

I know your mouth operates for language
but for which you will have to tell me in one I understand.

Would you, like some coffee then.
You look angry so you pretend you missed my big gesture
you tug your black knit to remain reading.

Then at least sound out what you thought
lost itself
               when we both spoke. Or also show to explain
          why we close the bathroom door with no one home.





Another theme party the day before cleared earth
dug into by our hands
is planted with Maypop ——

    I arrived as a Holocaust
survivor, and you the retarded girl no one knows
how to speak with —— Why, I ask.
                                                                    I thought
we would laugh, you say.We both know Jungle
as clustering parapets to trap unconsidered selves.

             We at least will null tragedy —— hands cupping
earth like a colander, those words
a cellular tone, construct an echo broken in form.

Whatever then might be said right now, I will try
to hear you; I am trying; with all temporal selves. 

I step into the bloom before it can become a cure,
once ground-out, I cannot even save myself there.





I am not enough after the read newspaper
be it respectable or not, whichever: a slit
between them fat as a blood-brain barrier.

The bottle
run-out-of each antacid tablet it offered
next to battered bristles with the fluoride
                     -spotted handle atop
neatly folded tissue; even my pubic hair
                  construction looks older now.

Its hanging.
Since an hour after mom’s mother
Irene, exited grey after the picture faded
by her metal hairclip finger—since then.

Otherwise the buzzes, that found sound
finds new tile around the body
                                  covering it in noise.
One could
go and go, until silence
           would surround that abject cavity.

But not in the bathroom, not undercover
    elsewhere here at home
could one outlaw or allow
   their phantom structure
to juke along with the turntable.
    Alone with its hinging. 

Because what is wild loneliness anyway
it is a luxury.