... (xix).

these things happen--when the world is hollow

when the soul is hollow also

and the soul is sometimes a cup for drinking

the rich liquer of existence

and sometimes an empty vessel

the wind swirls against the sides

or the air hangs heavy in the bowl.

morning

the sky coursing

through the banked leaves

the sun

eddying in the clouds

and the birds, hidden in the branches

asking, asking--

and one shoots across the sky

over the asphalt

thundering between the trees

tide (receding)

cast up against the brick
like driftwood--a little bowed, but strong
with my face in silehoutte on the glass
and the pool of sky clear above me
lapping gently at the pavement
the crests of the clouds still and soft
of the things littering the afternoon
I could pick up a shell, a piece of frosted glass
and tell you about it
--but, equally
of the fibers
knotted smoothly and waving
resting, with the others
strewn across the shores of the day

capitalism?

... and in the heat of the night

with walls growing closer

and sweat on the concrete

and slick on your brow

--I have sent you down to work

to hunch in the dim light

I have torn myself apart

and separated the component parts

and commodified my soul

so that transactions flow more smoothly

a hand-shake in the dark

a moment of touching

and the system is expanding

and skirling away from me now

--I did not think, when I was laying the structure

that I would find myself

so far from the center

leaning forward on the bench

I meant to draw every bit extra

into one thrust, forward

--so how

do I find myself, with something whirring

in the background

staring at the stars under the window

and the cool breeze

seeping under the glass?

spring

who can mourn in the face of such beauty?

the snow has wept itself down into green

and your feet, also weeping

have drawn lines across the softness

and the world has drunk down all waters together

and has quenched itself on all waters together

and watches you now, emerald eyes gleaming

... (xiv).

grieve not for the despair
nor fear slashing yourself on the ice in winter
nor that the blood still wells in springtime

for the world is also bleeding in cardinals
--brother, I wish she had loved you better.

... (xviii).

... really *not* quality--it's been a long week.

---

waste the day

--grind it to ash

smear it across the tile

skid across the seconds

knees bent, and crouching

and whip your head

towards the past

--as it comes bounding

after

be faster than

memory

more cunning

--you must fool yourself

all the spectres

come streaming

howling your name

your own old flesh

flapping behind them