so lost often that park silent and then the bald one running final chamber scimitars drawn they fail they clear the man left to knot thin as a line coral council fire—fixed bald one running and done many-legged machine it must be because no time neither gasp nor scream such attention in and into the man’s mouth true being notice a country and its crop yields the man left to rot in the oil wars the police fix one lip behind a clearing calculations of the police
The sky has been paved over by no boats in the Hackensack. In the gutters of River Road watery asphalt crumbles because it is New Jersey and very unwell. Even the street light thinks filth, with the sadness of her body her electric mind every minute and Ken Zisa inside the house watching his Yankees inning after inning. Outside the window, a man says something and a girl laughs, “No, Milagros, eso no es un gusano real.” Everything fizzles.