one idle hand slides through the balustrade
in a hurry

my life quickening
shattering beneath the earthen ground of

this tower in this stucco-perfect day
in this wondrous moon suffused

by my dissent. it is all anticipation
and warning, all suspicion, this one

that has no name. say when space happens
a body in a body ****** in the aqueous hand,
and dreams of fish,

say this space once marred now
occupied by us, or you, say you are not to be
mistaken for my being and simply
for absence to happen

you must sway, dartle into this thick
array of contests and then

in a sharp stab of air, bleeding,
quicker than the drying of streets in April,
space will happen.