Precision is everything. Bodies will be accounted
  with accuracy, one by one, and then all. Buried
  in the  chaîne opératoire.   Aplomb simmering
  in the sinews, cold as metal. Daylight will collect
  all that is disposed. Twilight will erase the monuments as cathedrals gorged, fat with prayer
   but before this, what impetus?

 Shot from the in-between, hip and pelvis.
     Surpass something from the peripheral:
 There are fugitives   conquering   secret places.
     Behind tense trees is the sought-for  enemy.
  Blinding light as   shot from  a hollow chamber
    the size of a dilated pupil: in a flash, 
             paraffin smearing   the  languid   visage.
   Hold   your   breath   and do   no harm
    to statistics.
               Nothing is  sure in   the   blotched minute.
    Stepping    on    bones    like  twigs,  names
        identical,   faces   disguised by    elements:    fire         as   sweat  and   blood.
         Air  pernicious   as   unheard   call for  mercy.
     This is   water:   the  one   who has  crossed
         the  river, close to   touching  the hand
      of   god.   Earth    a   trembling    grave.

      Words   roam as  should there  be  always
  in a  body, a  dazed  ornate  for a tractable  beast.
     You are here    for  passing. Prayer  is  intolerable,
    mind  the  sound  later  in newsprint. We  are
       the  same  muck   plastered   to stucco. It  rained
    ballistic  somewhere  between    the   sure-footed
         paper and   the   drawn line:

     They word it here as aletheia.
      The victims still unidentified.

In between,
     nonplussed   punctuations. Home  will  be  empty,
        if  not    for   candles. Carry   this   diadem
    across and    place  it  over the  helm of this
       broken   skull. Save   later   the  days for
     remember:  let  elegies perform nomenclature.

     Counterargument   was   day  if blinded
         by   intrusion. It has  happened,
    indelible.   Marked  by coordinates,  likened
    to   where  body parts  must be.  Unchallenged
       to  dismiss  the  derelict:  never to   return to
    geography.

          Dust on the ground.
          Rusted this  morning:  a bond broken into,
         the alloy  of an unknown   body
        breathing in the austere air of who   defied
            the incidental.
        It  will
     never     wear  off.    There
         is     only     reminder.

Remember when we
cannot remember anymore,
the Sun shining through
windows sealed shut,
when we talk about it
we do not talk about it, we call
it with a different name: aberration.
I cannot remember you anymore
so small and languid in this
life. Everything pales in comparison --
offered by chance, filled with hesitancy
as if obligation, emptied by coming
into the fullness of it, saying it as a plump word
with the same accuracy of knives
tucked within the soft recess of the kitchen
counter that same day, you were different
as any other when we cycled through
Alexandrite Street, the world new again
like we were born in the similar moment
splintered by much less of a force waiting
outside the black gate of the home, and so
much more of a name slipping away
from the cliff of my chafed lip onto your
body's sustained pit, the drop barely an
indent, only as if of limited exertion but
possibly a weight for us to solder
through and through. I told you I could never
indulge into the fray and hold armaments
of it, but twice-told this battle I can
fit in: you, my accoutrement for war,
hallowed you are in excess of flow and march
through rain and light smiling through
opened windows with a blank circle of lightness
that is your face held close and memorized
before taking the commute home, force-equipped
with time's persistent pleading and our
untoward compliance like a reciprocal of stiffness:
you are the wall of your home and I,
a suspended pendulum with a dumb clockhand
     in a stalemate.

if yearns
  to be  kept as  is
  a thing holding   itself  together
  traversing a straight  line.

  pause as if insistence,
  breeds space, pretends   as  if one
  if not   halved,
  severed,

  stills itself  to  a  portrait
  facing  the   mouth
  of a  door   that shuts   itself
  to   the   future,

   reopened  like a  wound
   foretold,  dragging with  it
   the  lassitude  of a  detritus.

   memory
       has    a    force
    compel  me  to    compress
        my    voice   to    silence,
    memory of  a   face
    by   sundown,   the   moon   in   its
       throne   subdued,   kept   afloat   by   a net
    of      stars.

   memory      it    is
      a  force it  cannot   name,

   forcing   open    this    held    peace
      does   not know   how   to
   break
   
     a   fall
   but   only
      break.

worthy of impedance  over time.
cause of this   space is to
   deliver me sleep-shaped. exit lights harbor
   sounds of the coming into just when you are
   born and raised, held completely
         against light    favouring  the source.

undenied, the demand   of   this
     assemble.    in any given climate, moderate
       but will not touch ground.  frothing elsewhere
    true  life, once again this   machine: in between
  labor     and     rest  is   the impossible.  to reach
     for a certain ****** midair. height is  palpable
  and will   rinse   flesh anew, how  urgent
      before i decompose   into   blue shear
         in   sky   face to  face   with   the
   all-too-immediate    rasp    of   ground  pulling
      together,  cast into   the  unloved  water
         breaking    apart   like  mesh   unwanted.

he   is  over   space   and this   is
     to    measure   warmth,   when execution
  is    the     verge  of  undoing.  so  barely-living
    and   claiming  it   so,   the   cause  of this
      performance
           is    to  free    the body |  
    making  past the  divide, careless and  almost faced
      beyond   a forthcoming   of  rescue:
    have escaped, have gone   and   already here.

1

held  against   the mouth
  sentenced cleaved to silence, what is around me
 is all this is: wire. quartet of birds. aqueduct
 as arrest and close range tap of rain on face
 rippling in the eye foreclosed and reasoned is
 this image's return -- what is it like to live
 far away from home and not hear me say
 regret as study of attitude? News carried
 bombardment of inner cities. We were hesitant
 to leave place and borrowed skin instead,
    if not borrowed then grasped for, what is the answer? if coordinates lie, what are
                   we trying to discover.

2

held  against  the  temple
   not a barrel of a gun, but similarly, a chamber if not
  a mouth breathing in sulfur. the day has spun
  out of, and in between clipped reminders of
    the calendar:
   today's broken notes on the tablatures are
 the daily. Do groceries. Pick the freshest fruit,
   take the sour out of the scale. Gut the fish
 and not word it so over the kitchen counter, I will
 watch behind a clutter of earthenware and furniture. Might topple the glass
     once and catch your attention. I do not deny your
  effect     on   my  soul.

3

  today's forecast of rain   is body staying in.
  the children are seized by terror as scattered displays    of  lightning   paint their faces
       petrified with a lack of hue -- listen to the
 intermittent, coarse static of the television
     when it happens, your face ripe for arrest.
  there   is   nothing to do in  a home
     holding  its  breath  when  you walk,
   do not   leave just yet. the water   is  rising.
      it tells   you   to   stay  in. triple your  presence
  across the  dining,  rain as if out of the  shower
      barely  drying   yourself,   leave  water
    i will    not   drink,  only    test  swimmingly 
      a  dream  out   of   sleep and   so real
       a   twitch of  fish    out   of   ocean.

4

  outside  you are  no longer  than  the   transit
  of   birds   seeking   canopies. Wind   disrupts
  the steady  arm  of   cables. Slosh of water
     from an   oncoming  vehicle  as if  beside  the
   sea crashing into   me   are   waves,

   What need   is   there  when  your   mouth houses
      water, your   *******, warmth?  Contrast as
   habit   of  alternatives. In verbatim, this is how it
    sounded from you, "We  are   very   young.
          Remember me   this   way."

  Now i  wish  voices   could  be bodies. The next irreconcilable   face   as    hearth.
              Fingers   as   assuage,   distance  as  dearth,
      grasp   if  not  borrow,  translatable  to
   signal,  my  body   heeding,   fraught by taciturnity through the   caught  wind
      through the  furniture, once your   body being   groped for like any
     other   sundrenched day.

Proof of the past:
    In November, you were born. Nothing here but stark cold,
   until your warmth. Your presence extolled.
        The mirrors remember your vestige. This is the silence
       that extracts itself then exacts itself in this frame. Sometimes letters

accumulate but remain unfinished. In November, it is all clear.
     I have no use for sordid entrails.

      It is the stone’s duty to be evidence
of situation. Its flight, the sum of all its lost parts,
    say when you speculate over the escritoire over an unfinished meal,

burn altogether and turn to scrap everything even the soft presses on the creaking
  metal of the chair where we almost made love but didn’t because it is a surprise
   that in rawness we are ripe more than ever, making our

     life total, if not equal to an immense fault. You are sometimes

the cold metal chair I conjure.   Sometimes just bleakness.   This uniformity

    seeks riddance.

   Proof of the past as surety to claim:
       In November, this year, they have changed the roads. Detours constructed
to arrive at a certain destination. Faces blur past the old university.
Trees    are  effigies.      Leaves wriggle like   the  curtains of  room  201,  2nd floor,

      I do not know what specimen I have in my hands. Bare in lack of worship.
  Grandeur      is  here
         when   seasons   are predictable.    This is the home and that is where you are that translates
      it     so. A wanted want – a dispossession.

Proof of the future:
                        You know nothing about this place.

A   twist on  the ****  may
   bring about   another  bout    of   setting this   into
the  brightest  contest:

in  the  middle   of  so  many  arrivals
    become   departure
   even   when   coming   into.

Fold   this   abandon   into   prayer
    and  slide it  underneath
  a pillow – your pillow, a  dagger
    to    wage   fray.

lean  toward   the  absence  like  a lover,
  dream   befallen   like  an  unwanted  visitor.
devise  a  plan  as  if  nothing  was here   at play.
   there is  nothing   here  but the

tentativeness    of   space – it may or   may not  happen,
   what  of   it, as if  it is  possible,

our   bravest   reach   to  things   we  recall
  is  our   conscious   error,   pity  our  duty
  if   not   our   image   cast   mirror to  broken   mirror
    shared   is the   damage   blown   by  wind

shorn   out   of   an eyelid’s  flutter,   weaving,
     turned  to    writhe   in   this    mortal   bed

this    day    will     evolve    tomorrow
  and    we   can   say   amid   transition

we     are   coming   to   be,   and   being   as we  have   went
  how,  in   this     frail   wonder

are   we   but    unsure.