So much laughter perhaps in front
of the console

If when we hand over what was given,
we are inconsolable.

Assume this position when
reaction is demanded:

You could, a massive day.
You could, a spectral of night
daggering into the forthcoming of nakedness  that was your title,

enmeshed, and then in a moment’s brief charade,
        torn apart, contained within four bedposts and a notch
        for a shimmering body lined with a peregrine skin.

how much it cost you, putting a face in this profile
    losing the document from flinging in the last time over and over
  as if we do not die only making copies of it each day

a    page is  turned not over but crimson  with   blame,
forging a lie  about  every  gilded moment  as  if  touch could  end it so

                      this day collapsed into a breath’s span crossing rivers.

Exhaled when sexed up a hole in a thing
particular is this day surprisingly surpassing

without end, if when volatile
consider stasis; ripples initial a signature

on plainclothes this Sunday. Silenced
his fist over dinner, this raconteur of beginning

splits to an end tracing a line between
stiffened    voice prior to   mouthing it so:

we have nothing to do here but absence zeroed
in like a marksman. Rendered it full

to a trembling gait stooping over parallels,
put it inside a box and hem it into a trundling vessel

send it to the edge of sun gruff with fever
   your derelict day inside this news.

We fumbled within ourselves as how I came into myself purely coincidence
     a repetition of a fleeting truth, or an elusive thing in its flight,

   let music remain in echo
                                         let  real be a reprise of tenderness
    let this patent be owning up to, a conscious enterprise its own   frailty
           do so let this body
            sing:

I am cold-blooded, I am metal, I am completely aware of presence,
     this elliptical voice keeps hunting rendering it false, breakable – this machine

    taking place over  navigable portions   of  myself when I trickle  down,  awaiting
       a prophecy:   we   only have what is now,  aspiring  for  the possible
            a glimpse   of   a thing   hiding, approaching  an  anxious   story

taken  as  hand   me  this  structure,   haul my body  out of,   break into,
       end  it  beautifully.

The poem was something in me a land
   beginning its history and I dug.
        a wind carrying a dove, en route
     a reachable reality stretching, floating towards

        a  tree whose body is its own frightened muting,
   a shoreline lapped by repetitive waves
     that is the poem, trying to erase what has been
   long  engraved in the sand, sand in between its
  very small distance housing  the salt of this wound,
      an addressable stream -- a signature of the
   not-so-distant past, which aches I trust to live.

How i found you frozen in this city
but not desolate. You have everything
else tethered to a string -- pull, fathom, decree
    it yours. Say when to stop, but not falter.
Push yourself over the edge none to break
   the fall but you. When sensations reach
 for the viscera, choose not to break.
 Coagulate like shattered glass in the banquet,
 labor as it were forced by default. Resign
 under makeshift places we haven't slept yet. A couple

          of  accidents made of yourself, some familiar
 things brought over supper. Your father will smile
 at the completed sight of you. Your mother I saw
 picking fresh apples from the stand, your face
 this evening juxtaposed to the many lights of
 this city. Yourself would manifest a pavement,
        stretched like a corpse I sleep in the gutter.
From the city which I found you what else
      are we but to wane.
   We   curve    in   this   curve. Let me  finish
 bent   as  small as  a question  mark starting
 
   with   perhaps:  perhaps they meant it
       perhaps they  saw it  coming
   perhaps it   was  i not  you
            perhaps  it is  morning and  birds spry
    everywhere   speaking.  perhaps it was you outside the  rain   burning

                    ending, concatenative else it was
        merely I trying to explain   to  a  grievous fault.

there is a way to part from
                   what separates us | converse issued
  by this curious distance |  toying with the
           proposition at sundown |  where to go
    when  you are home |  look at me across
          the eye and  see  copies

              true  breaking  in mirrors between
    shards  graphed  and  measured   go
           through me  you say  where   are  we  now
     that  we  have  gone?

        i  am  all  your   textures   shuffled  by
        hand    all  your  susurrus  folded   slid
        underneath    my   tongue   --  messages
        through a fusuma of teeth  piercing  air:
        breath mine to your  own mine  still  past
       clouds   in   dizzy   formations   head   northwest
        where  you belong, i sleuth  but  not demand
        an  opposite  of   presence, much palaver
       when it is thrown out in the  open  bare as
        a  shaved  beast
 
       how  does  a memory   walk   in  stilts
              past  cities   dreaming  impish
        with   a    proposal

      let      us      flee --

1 Method:

Witness nothing but the body
    hurtling at best, if not dilapidated.

Cusped in space, never held.
Behead the music,

    if not the conductor.

It will happen when everything has
  expired in the threshing.

Wring me pure, make me delicate,
  chain me in the wrongness.

    Embody this figurine pierce it with stem
  break it gossamer as petals imperiled ad infinitum
       sleek as a metaphor rising from rinsed perfume.

2 Chance Operation:

  Say when she caresses / this mired  setting:
  it is   of  preparation.

  Seize this mean when preparatory.

 Turn you as inside-out cleared from veiling.
  In a vitrine you wish to be freed from,
  examined, never granted meaning;

  Mundane the discovery.
  A throb of fever gone from tepid bath
  walking into space, abled.        

  Acute blunder is study, wash me with theory.
  Sullen is the word for it, entitled to acute error.

  Say when    it  ceases,
   tranquilized. Never waking up, fastens to

3 Dreamwork:

  Always still is the heart.
  I envy the water midstream. Fingers partition
 
   when infiltration is sure of. A conscious removal
   merits the continual of lobotomies.

  Augur this dim presence, make it raw again
      infallibly, make it my body. Forge my skin out of
   and  listen to  it. Feel the drone   of  this machine

   making space less tolerable. This begins
      an end, but of what pursuit is this here

   always  a  vision Blinded  by   definition
         away    from   here?