Our World Is A Measurement, Not A Movement
I am a statue built too close to a moving bus. Fluorescent
lights blur the bedroom. Here, our wings beat time with the
tune on the radio.
I remember that you can hide these tiles with shadow.
Twenty minutes will push you the way wind moves, but for
now I stick to your stomach like fog.
I remember that half of too much is still too much.
First Morning #8: Every Morning
Animals are not made for artificial light. I see you in the
corner of my eye and reconsider the shape of my nose.
Today was a bad day.
You say, slow monopoly. You stare at the bagels in the
freezer, take one out, wash it. This morning holds us at the
Sometimes windows are small walls.
Pretty Scene, Late June, 1992
You laugh like an unopened package. Six white ducks
float in the lake.
Last night, you explained bodies: the cold hexagons of a
brain’s spatial map, the translucent heart’s electric warmth.
I point at the lake. It is our lake. I carry large stones to
dam the muddy water.
You can’t pin down time with fire. I flick a cigarette at
your ankle and nothing happens.