Insouciance     first   fall
   we    took    the   night      half-illuminated
   dreamy     stereo     sketchy   static
   through     ear’s  round   bell

smile  we    owe   it  
      slanted,     bendable   light  moon
  becomes    another    genre

   to    listen     lilt
  even     before     methods   of   lip
   procure     shaded    meaning   cohered
  on     a    closed    door –  opened
finding    a    semblance    of Sun
     there,     veiling
a     traffic   of     cirrus
    in     the       elongated    road
   of          blue     skies

it    was    time
   to     point-source   a   home
taller    than    grass    in  Summer
     pinpointing   scenes    to     exact
a    long   divide    and    make    it
     by      punishing    it    post-peak,
let    it       drift    with    unrelenting
     quickness
       past     mouthed    rivers     and   from
the       lessening   fog
           of       the     same     morning
i
     will     puncture
it   true,      eyes     set   forth
    into     your   absence

*you’ll
bloom
you’ll
bloom.

And then it was your necessary contradiction:
note your taxidermied narrative pale everything against,

not from – from the hip of your stature,
drawn to.  You will happen – the quick hands

and the quicker gestures the frailest meaning
exposed to warmth that was your becoming, now effloresce

and gain an optimum: your day you say it was
        in front of a sweating bottle, fondling your clothes
|   clawing  it  inside,  complaining of your salt.

   Here too are spaces for things you rule over
   the precision of a film shot from the horizon
  by  which I mean you persist   |

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.

I want to hurt a known face: this imperative,
drab like old habits refusing to sway. The countenance is obscured:

   no longer does the face tell me to withdraw. All the more, the static of it,
from the outset, diminishes to movement and from there, swings by,

   an alternate setting: in all of this, faces were just as a swell sheen from
the borrowed. This is normal, you take it as    sound takes, assumes form or music

   of likened endings.  I want to hurt a known face.

I want to mount it from the nape and stab it sharp with this

     imperative. I want the hollow to echo the urgency of it,     I want the blood to ripple
and then wave-like, undulate to – as we have been caught, addled by

      the sea we call as:   for the finite yet deemed lasting.

             Or   when I see you as   drawn from a line – a truth
halved that  was your  finest set,  a reality   settled     in   its   terminal

    letting out the  longest breath  /  a   detritus   /  a quiet  fate we  call

      away   /   trying    to   locate

    else you     were just    a   flutter.   A thinning   gesture.