there is the chickadee as the chickadee before /
fist-sized energy pronouncing some incremental turn of the planet /
what they build is a world no less /
of lending a wing to currents and tremors /
see what I do, lighting to a perch on which the earth rests
what continues to be said in absentia of the frail points separating the highway where we would prefer to collide neither giving way / as is after a snow storm, laying claim to the entire parking lot with the dividers hidden and so all space is taken without those faded agreements
in 1909 buildings and trees and grass and sky pressed up against the glass /
flattening out to colourful stains /
glowing green, ripe blue, heated yellow /
how could anything live in Murnau? /
all the space where oxygen widens is squeezed /
people gladly slice through razor thin doorways /
blackbirds fly up or down only, frantic for a hidden perch /
and as the air escapes through the crack at the bottom of the scene /
citizens forget how to speak
grave matters /
it really does /
our closing dimensions /
unruly edges pressed down with spit /
two sets of lines falling parallel /
never crossing /
as is the meaning allowed /
a hole passed around /
at best, a novel definition lands /
stretching h x w /
to a landscape
one mouth / a clapping crease / as for multiple mouths, a hole in the universe / lofty crack, creaking in firsttime / not that secondtime counting procedural motions and white wigged nays / but the firsttime combusting from intimate elements / into flashes of a public space breathing through alltime / with a common body sensing the pricks from every earthy direction / hopefully, the abstracts sharing a feel
swimming over the red river / noun and descriptor have always been one / the dive is drawn in a sharp arc / landing where lead breaks / graphite crumbs on the bank / stretching out toes above the waterline / creeping for a drop off / where remains of light lend a lift to the brown / before it walls towards blueblack / even into an unbroken sheen, there is calculation
take, go, out to the glare / heighting above a shaking hand / build leaking vessels from the craft / of inwardly glue, mile-long staples, four-sided tape, unfinishing nails / leaving the image trailing into the street / designed for the rhythm of tripping / take, go, fire the sign / annealing phrase to a living line
dying in space would be ideal /
no earth to move /
no air for eulogies /
no sound for sympathies /
no surface for signing certificates /
room to relax for the finale /
calm beyond recourse /
reaching out for the gesture alone /
and all the light and dark a human can allow
just a jot to say I failed to write /
the space was across the street /
and I forgot my feet somehow /
distracted by the extra day in the hour /
a counterfeit note whistled before
lost my myth yesterday /
somewhere on 17th /
where curb height changes unexpectedly /
the earth rises up without warning again /
shouldering into bone, tripping the cultivated image /
of dominion holder forcing a grand rotation, day cleaving night /
rather tossed gravel for applause /
as this trumbling frame meets its dust /
and the only common, kind laughter