The earth which filled her mouth
is vanishing from her
To whom it may concern
If that is a label, the
The people in a state of rawness
unpack, produce
The passerby, a black box
recodes their names and symbols
Machinery, how be it,
hums out, reporting
sunspots might affect migration
Coffee, inside, presses and
levels
The persistences, fur collared
conditions hands once a day
How a door can
filter out
our landscape
Mentioning the conduct, some lay
right sided
towards the river, our container
of
bearing factors, rounded
Swashed men watch young girl's
kneecaps
Shift that skirt the wind is
firing out.
Nor can he recall
her last words had been
The seconds' ruins
spill on the floor,
a mass of thread
overwise, can it be knotted?
Many feathered, would prefer
snapping it off with brandish
however, never being read, it is
tradition for use
A woman folds, unquestioned,
linens as if overseas
Among her thread, needles, she
sews up her
frosted reminders,
There is no smallest size for a
blackened hole.
A man re-veins a home with
wirings
In theory, it is
the cut-glass faces, orange
tinted,
that prop the sun
Altering subjects, it was fall
and the
heckling emerged with it-
Men with daughters look on
at women as if they were the
mother
Angling it right would save some
time cutting
the sequences, configuring
heaven
All we could use were tilled
words
Or, clear
Enameled voices
I wish I could tie a ribbon in
your hair,
a white one, but it cannot be.
Magnetic fields
extend infinitely, though
They are weaker
Further from their source
Try to deplete a distance, or at
least, alter it
Where the wind rinses, look
At the brows so moist
Boots swab
cemented ice
This thing we are
The thirsted creators
are empty
And where are we
Tucked in
the nothing
material, knit
uncapping the star mesh
We are still hungry
For the fistfuls
Of currants, light-tinted
refractions
All it does is fidget out
With her eastern face
Where they burn out in disgraced
red, brilliantine
For all if worth has any.