Sometimes I am in the center of all things intentional and accidental. My conquest lies somewhere in between its execution. When this happens, I am ready: I will wear a white shirt. Keep mum like a leaden chapel. My eyes will be red like surgery. My precision of stasis, impeccable – like mother gutting fish in the kitchen, or a door unhinged by my father. Each exploit
drawn out of the mundane. Hearing the sinking dreaded music of shovel excavating the Earth, taking the image blurred. Clarified like clearing of a throat is my reckoning of a dull Wednesday. Rain descending like a flower. Bathes the world like soiled linen where we are cut from uniformly. Sometimes I am two abysses in one place: the gap of the ground and the horizon, sometimes cut-rate like pothole. I know a day exists and can neither be decent nor loutish. In this frame, I can be sepia. Whitewashed like wall, hewed like linoleum on floors.
In this center I can be the forever grass when all things expire by morning