for Jeff Nagy When do I begin to seize with frequencies a chain That carves out homes such that our heads, crowned in the color wheel, Distantly tangle in a failure of sound? It’s a decision one makes Distinctly between a sky red with speech and quickening fists As if a geode protecting its young. I’m not alone to say I’m alone When I say it’s getting dumber with use. Aerodynamic with King Midas’s drool, to use its serum on a wound would rev Flesh in breath beneath your answers if and when they come. A folio Opens its paint for the patrons, a fountain open in the fountain Room, blank space pokes the back of my neck. Beneficent friction, One ought to sleep under its heat as often as August opines From its soapbox so long as that soapbox is you. The room recedes Which I am not against so long as January revolves without fail. Space
Is a sadness, no question about it. Diligence anoints itself to December While eschewing a general winter, else why would the middle So resemble the splash of flight? Begin again to end in color, Film is interminably in black and blue; you have an arrow protruding From spring but that doesn’t mean you can treat it like April. Snow Is a sign of the city’s efficiency and we are little more than that, never Around anymore. When I arrive from the prairie Zero furniture awaits an animal stalking its contours as if real estate Grew obstruction out of its ears. In this way the cameo of lack You hang from your neck resembles waltzing in a darkened ballroom Glittered with shoots of a building return. What fidelity Demands I not wake filled with a word? I think you can feel it When that phase hits and continues; I think who
Finds my lipstick under the cinema’s stadium seat is essentially what I am and was, a single day, but how is it to be that vessel on which a silver Cylinder arrives to model a horn of the mind via the ring Around the mouth? Last night was is, a gem of it, No solar flares or song emitted from the spine. A pose,
No question, but day is fevered to serve its laughter to hours felt as It collects a string you offer. Adults wave to us from inside A lawn and I feel they wave with their own arms. Their eyes Are filled with filaments and their skin is filled with strikes. A painter Wrote a woman he’d loved had skin like white marble, now what Was his name? Materials flood the feeling like ribbons of heat, scores In a log. Half of consciousness is showing up, the other half is more Or less mirrors. The other half is mirrors.