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You talk at others like they are me.
Your laughter is the same.
I will hang myself in a boyhood clearing.
Those who do not know will ask what a “finnegan” is.
At once full of scissors, a world of triage and blouses,
an out-longing of daisies in the supermarket’s refrain,
a dated self, the salad days,
your inferior topiary, your beautiful hair,
all at once like a halting struck me.
Today, a coaxed and terminal minx.
I sat on a bench in a rain of days.
Hushed at the livery and thwarted at the goose house, we slept away the nothingness,
or otherwise were upright in the fine June sun.
A lifetime of thunder, asleep beneath a hat.
You are the bane of evangelical fences.
By extension, the bears' prehensile lips go pocking after inscapes of gristle-sap and plums.
Honey dark chlorine, with location, we tarry:
at first I tried to beam down the hall, a compensation, my ears bright as pears
the onlookers wilt into chrome shanks and bustle
eventually their eyes find the holes in my lapel
I feel the need to squeak or burble
to descend, fathomless, to the blank, to the nadir of sequence
to find the pond where I had thrown stones
first at the willow, then at the pond, and finally toward some jealousy, some worm in the sky:
A dollar bill for each pore and finally I am a woman.
Concern yourself more directly with the architecture of mortal kin.
I have not seen such a thing, nor do I expect to.
You talk at others like they are me.
Your laughter is the same.
I will hang myself in a boyhood clearing.
Those who do not know will ask what a “finnegan” is.
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