Like the breath you left someplace. Cage a sound now.
of your boy's bones, an interesting wrist cliche. Fourteen
by sea, or twenty-four waves of sleep. The air seeps
out from me.
Instrumental progress makes bodies march. This imaginary
rose curls as it opens.
my varied composers,
my mass sonorities, my line which erases
Evenings rinse the chimneys.
The operations involved for things. Bricks and
skins, inert activity, we do need to put. Without the
body we rest, and the hair
scrapped in piles. We are proud of this mortar ambivalence,
long discard we've outgrown. Groom that rectangular
self out of proportion.
the tools of the body's
loaves, the earth's tools we return to use
Subparagraph the tapping.
Take another tack. Can priests
prepare our stomachs any longer? This is not our history,
like the builder
or the barber. The 'getting later of everything.' Ping-pong
Past Orbital Relief Road, the breeze twists its fingers.
pause voice pause
Imagine the plantation,
the R in relief. He holds a graffitied sweatshirt
in his hand. After weeks, she is all worked up. Protect
this old food.
It was never any good. Spaces are built by rhythmic
lungs. This box
you could curl in for sleep. Bend in the window for
a real good hush.
semantic snares of
the cyclic, map of pitch-time events
The horizon bleaches at its spine.
The hay beneath him. So she runs to the
illumination. Anchored by its gears. I must decipher
my curving skull's order.
Corners revolve away. Each word the empty space that
If you keep up that rhythm. Bucket her tiny influence.
The silence that ensues.
These sounds have been recorded
and unfold, unfold, unfold.