The Throat of Winter, Evenings
In Demask, King
Of the Rumbling Spires
That’s life in the twenty-second
Commercial of childhood, only today
I discovered John McEnroe
Owns Gerhard Richter’s Girl
On a Donkey, the nature of perversion
Perpetually shifting as one’s dream
Dwindles in the lens
Or is lost adrift
The swifts’ delirious plunge
As gentle earthquakes pervade
As the little tear gland
Says tic-tac and petty octogenarians
Crowd the Lexington
Storefronts where teenage girls
Spill their blank
Guts between pages in the cloud
Book, waiting for Max
Ernst’s Science Fiction of Color
Summer correspondence
Course to begin, each
Benign conscience quietly plagued
By the interregnum, it is not trivial
This death we die not
Dying, the blur of sexuality
Metastasizing in blinks, I never
Imagined I’d marry
An aristocrat nor quote
Sections of broken Austrian
English, some stupidity
Is heroic, some heroes assume
The village children
Are blind, I can’t
Count the number of times
I’ve thought the world
Different only to find my fingers
Twittering in their familiar
Way, the reflective scallops
My nails make shaking
Like gusts furrowing a sail
I am too fraught
With this calligraphic
Landscape I speed
Too sure these unsteady words
Are like a frowning woman who wants
Desperately not to sleep
With me, if reality
Is temporal why not write
Poems the size
Of cathedrals, that’s life
In the ten-second
Opening of train doors don’t
Be afraid to give everything away.
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