Constant limits like holes in the fence. 
This silver island pretends not to notice,

 

covering angles & indispensable doubts. 
The desert reads pages & pages of iconography,

 

lonely for an empty torso.  Right now,
an assembly of sitting & standing & walking

 

through doors.  We have learned how to wait,
lending red to inspired filaments, walking

 

the cement like rib-shaking demonstratives,
an ache instead of insistence in the periphery.

 

I don't know what happens when you are not
near me & I don't want to—unfinished & intent

 

on holding true: the strain of looking up,
the reprieve from tented constellations.

 

A pristine motivation
rebuffs between beach
& boulevard. Hearsay
delineates under a summer
sun. I am putting the cup
to the lip; there is electing
to be done & idiosyncrasies
to disdain. We are pleased
when niceties sit in piles
or go behind cabinet doors.
The towering worthy passage
sits between stops like thin aristocracies.
From the lawn we see
ambivalent skeins
& antibodies of urbane youth.  
There is no end to the length
we are willing to wait.  We recite
vespers.  We acknowledge the day.
The shrugging belt rolls
under & displays recovered
packaging. Bars of soap
saddle up with cucumbers
& mechanical recognition.
I like finding what I can

& sticking it to the walls.

 

*
A rhythmic knot thumps
close by. Unwelcomed drafts
are more prone to a backing away, 
Entire cycles are crammed into mouths.
Tendrils fall, guided by what follows.
I am only here because there
is nothing else. Is it worth knowing
the products of others’ inventions
& the way they drag the net
through what they’ve contained?
There is no other record
tallied for outside reasons. 
Nothing has been kept.
A circle burns & I go looking
for a way to put out half. We forget
the cold as it pushes passed the window
without removing the one
inexplicably large waterway
& what moves through it, 

in the middle where the helm is met.