It was late last night the dog was speaking of me, and the gulls speaking of me, out over the field. You were drawing water from the tap in the kitchen and a moth was speaking of me, beating for light.
I was raising delft from the sink to the aumbry, while they spoke of you in loops, over the waves. I reached for a switch; sunlight coalesced about your reflection, helmet of bright coils.
Outdoors was a blankness peopled with black angles; waiting for the water you caught your own glance. My eyebrows bustled, you submersed in my dressed; then you were speaking of me, just a word, in response.
All the dogs in America have sisters of their own, all the birds have sisters, out on the highway. Moths have moths for sisters, beating out for light, and I am speaking of you here, to everyone I meet.
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dancing motes of grasshalms
of manchester or trinity
yet to have been made whole
somehow by countries
which had relapsed
into appreciation those countries
halming the nasty english vocalature
grass thatchwacked up and
into the ol' english nose — achoo! such wind! —
which had like a holy cat o' whip
that vampiric futurism
least appreciated by the latin culmus, stalk great
merely insofar as its industrial revolutionaries
plume up and out and into and over the city hollows
wholly contained therein as a bauble
for those who lash mercy's baetylus — speech
the wretched witch
for other tongues of other men;
veteris ex nova
create many named grasses in seaweed and mussel and among their publications and publishers lecania hutchinsiae et al and the mussels of miss ellen’s garden who? is praised by botanists with seaweed and that’s accurate the thick shale how does she call herself? you can’t appreciate cork bound in seaweed and gripped to be thick and accurate shale how do you yourself do? can you do? she can appreciate cork and read supersonically aware of the mirror forever behind her head read the limestone tomb of seaweed and read of a spectacle of thick shale how does she hold it all? some can’t appreciate cork in praise of botany she had thick arms and history on the fringes does it remind you of someone? cladophora hutchinsiae? how do you do? must you yourself climb what must be? or just or just or just
do you need some more right ears david?
insert this monkey’s jaw in the space between
the ridge of the ear and the skull? (what is the
name of this extra-hard portion of skull? place
yourself behind the eyes of the croaking
at the bottom of the well y’all read that
dystopian joint, right? if it’s not the question
make it the question the tattoo gun’s inkless
pain not traumatic pain not turn off their mics
pain norman wilkinson glorious connective
tissue brooklyn botanical garden spindle after
spindle of pink thread plexiglass emotion torn into by the drill
bit fastened into the skyline yellow power tool
you ain’t shit without the green palms
atop the far-off balcony (i don’t much like these people
yes yes i’ll say it true gorilla glue too-plastic
reams of adenosine reams of headaches
reams of just fabulous four-eyed ooogling
can you believe what this bouquet cost?
flock to see my job is simply to fool you into collecting
my eggs the whole identical alabaster set 144 in all before
abandoning your family leaving only the heavy eggs behind
go to dublin and find someone performative
to love as much as i loved you the right hand so persuasive
“I do not think of you lying in the wet clay / Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see / You walking down a lane among the poplars / On your way to the station,” from Patrick Kavanagh’s ‘In Memory of My Mother’
lying in the end of you are all mad and we cattle—among the cattle—among the can walking along you are all made and we cattle—among the poplars on a lane along you say don’t forget the bargains are all made and we cattle among the rich with life—and you meet me and you lying down a fair day by accident after the wet clay for it is a harvest evening down a summer sunday—you smile up the bargains are piling along the end of you lying in the wet clay for it is a headland we are all mad and you walk among the ricks against the end of you smile up the end of repose
Upon a bank I sat, a child made seer
Of one small primrose flowering in my mind.
Better than wealth it is, said I, to find
One small page of Truth’s manuscript made clear.
I looked at Christ transfigured without fear—
The light was very beautiful and kind,
And where the Holy Ghost in flame had signed
I read it through the lenses of a tear.
And then my sight grew dim, I could not see
The primrose that had lighted me to Heaven,
And there was but a shadow of a tree
Ghostly among the stars. The years that pass
Like tired soldiers nevermore have given
Moments to see wonders in the grass.
“The welling of cicadas in the green / afternoon before the storm” August Kleinzahler, from “The Old Schoolyard in August”
from algeria colombia and ireland
the federation defends address
matches all judging aside
who also worked
all judging officials
review the inside
echoes a coached-thing who wins
about to step forward through all that governs thee
russian boxing computer
accuse release released accused referees agree
agree agree agree