(no subject)

[houses]

CRACKLEWORK

Traveler:
The window is the key to its form:
Nebulous, clinging to smells
Arches that move christward, brushing the sides|| PASSAGES
PASSAGES|| in form
Orbits meet corroded horses’ flanks
welling in skinfolds
Creosote - clogs our names
echoes through cracklework eardrum passages
slim partitions in graveyard handclaps,
Almond-shaped mysteries.

Scalps|| removed from our sight
scalps that tore away from the sun
free, acidic passages|| eyelets in wings|| BEACH OVER SKY
only the raw margin where the page has been torn
The clock: milkfaces, remembered crowds
Feasting on coloured lights
GESTICULATING
All in vain.

And a lost transmission:
BURN THE PASSAGES
BURN THE PASSAGES