here i am in boston.

i have decided to stay until saturday, things seem believable here

intentions still artifact

addition

fluent in steering, dumb
farmscape between

a cloud
broken smock to slip from

wire birds if real birds

a station comes by the lamp
or easier, ply

my name drinker
this glib drive; flick it on or off

later grass, later stains, still thrown down on fields

tired of talking

away away away

His spacing is presence without distance, or voice, keeping close as possible to his thought,

so it won't scatter in the world.  It demands from the stem of the voice nonspatial mastery

of blanks and neogations of its positions, a fugue or ground on which the missing person

is an ideal which eventually unites with her sensible aspect, but which ( Read more... )

ventriloquism, oh
you wooden dream

appeals
to my fogged wander

dark up 128
and your

unwashed
hair when our clothes
stuck like August to Farmington.

Someone’s picnic driveway
I buckle you in
recede into monologue

appear
again, ancient
thicket in Solon, our first.

brought rope and
hands with bottles for us. you sink

thrill boy and into the reclining

adhere your

cheap
metaphor picks a fight
picks us off

ascends freely the bathroom.

noon hands us bottles here
linoleum is divine. we

omit selected stage
directions, honor the holiday episode.