are
we in an en
vironment—nowhere we can
be & not be there—or are we
of it:
dried yarrow
& piccolo basil, flaking
from a vase on the sill,
the dishwasher
anthem,
hydraulic falsetto,
biffing & chafing the bone
china plates,
soap on stainless
on stick-proof Tefal & I’m
scared to hell of the fuck if
I know,
that something will
take you, before I can go,
& drag me with it while
leaving
me behind:
a man can unbuckle at
nothing, at night, like ripples
from a blade,
at an mp3 of birdsong in the Bois
collider
Verona inside the body, the |
veins, & Venice dissolved in the mind, |
spooling at speeds of incommensurate order: |
a bullet train crossing a backgammon |
board, or the metro to fit inside a metro |
-nome: help me, someone says, |
take off my face |