Michael Aird and Nola Accili

outside, the crane
operations like eat, sleep, shit
root in themselves an adjacent

body count—be it probable
through every set of fingers and toes or note
always empty is always poorly worded

I held rust on the bucket and substitute
fertile in that range of movement, maybe
or it happened ahead of schedule—the heights

you could return to, their arc in your image
in progress—where you read open
an order of given names: the Work, talk of

Postponing the work/ rain glints off those limits
onto both skin and its leveling
or repeat how plunged do we have to be

before soil overhead will stop
even training an argument

you lift me up also a social
item, simultaneous layering on
of hands and their target—whose land is this
looking so ill? ownership doubled over

long term, drift from the original
to know necessity as a site
tingles along your extra self into
no cure, but new traction

so the crane is silent and creates
its phrases fall after us, form
our hunger to be invested here
during that suspension—you figure more

likely at a loss that’s recognizable,
no less armed with our trespass across the field
than beyond it—a sputter
of motor oil pockets the dream and slips

away anyhow incomplete

sifting if not only an outcome like
prompted, you wear your hands down
to a bare accident, but sequel after sequel of them
slouching toward a plot delivery—
the crane stands in

the crane stands in equally possible
interruption: have you eaten tomorrow?
how will you misunderstand that body’s
silhouette on its raw material?
one day clearance, a discount

sprung from that exorcism, fully twin
anxious to the point of collapse
now concrete, now calm itself the crane alone

can digest its extent here no further
that fluent/ you were already thinking
as though contracted to an aftermath,
leftover you remember then

also withstand