lxxvi.

in one march, a long time ago
the table was long,

and the breeze whispered through
a crack in the window

I sweat, and I saw through the long
hallway, a hand

over the ocean, long and nimble
so--the fate and failure of reach

long and nimble, and all the halls
were windows, and the windows
were halls, and I wept

for every light in the sky, and its
mad flung capacity,

ranging, but we choke, we fall
along the border, still--

the heat, lay across the table like
a person, in the bottom of the cup

the leaves say this:

one moment of wrongness is enough
to bring the mountain to the sea, but not enough
to bring hand to hand,

it will burn, the fall


---

not enough to bring life to the day, nor the days
thereafter, only in these

similar moments of madness, enough to bring
the hand to the mind, never mind it, but enough
to bring the hand to the mind, regardless--

no account that, nevertheless, enough, but only
in these similar moments of madness

not enough, but when madness falls to
subjunctive madness--then

lxxv.

the dry air will choke out
the most reasonable

of delusions, the lights
flicker upon a thousand histories

slouched against the vinyl, legs
stretched out,

constrained by art, slumped
over the tufted plastic,

molded particle-board,

--time will make virtue of
any misstep that lasts, any
precept that travels as far
as the fingers--

--someone will say, I
used to think like that,

the wings shake, maybe the sky
alleviates itself of such a
limited definition,

sends you stumbling, into halls
made by human hands, sure, as a
finger in your eye, reminding you,

that art is so much, slam yourself
against the window,

such the power of that art, that the world itself
is made of windows, and I would
bleed on them, broken--but that is such a
sliver of nothing.

---

it could be a kind of birth, but the moment
drags, against the air--

until it is all but dead, and
releases, then

lxxiv.

if it spins wild, mad
and turns,

                if you turn,
your face--from the

from mine, the lights
high upon

the balcony, the whirl
of feet, in the circle

will tell you, if
corners become
        impossible

rooms where the smoke
curls high, the word drifts
down,

if you carry a knife, sunk
among the scraps, I

gather them from around
the blade--the world might
wait awhile

for us, caught in the branches
of dogwood, hanging low over
the street
                hung from this moment

or the next,

for now, if it spins, I will see you
in the black, frames the sky,

imagine, in the girders, below
the drape--just beyond the edge

of sight, this breath and the next,
for a moment--world enough

it might wait, never expected
nevertheless

lxxiii.

if consigned to memory
                       recursion

I lay these words,
as carefully as I once
laid my days--

you became symbol

when the boughs were falling
flying in the street,

fallen across the lanes, green
and broken, the towers blowing,

green, over the hillside,

lxxii.

it fell off of my desk,

the broken stems,
the dirt on the carpet
the sharp scent of greenery

--I smell it from the doorway

---

the frame creaks against the sill,
the imprint of the wind

falls along the sides of this building
whips into the circle,
it rises, rushing and empty
up the verge

through the dark in the needles,
cut by the gate