those soundproof mornings
that you’re born deaf, and alone in Paradise
serving your sentence; the summer
is still, and faceless cars go by

who knows what imaginal cargo they carry, these awkward machines;
whale skins with all the air sucked out of them, or masts
that used to be the legs of stiltwalkers

the stereophonics of a memory lapse
and wooden footsteps:

I’m not the person that once loved you
he enjoyed lying on his back and laughing often
I choose building and combat and the tiredness of devotion
safe to say he is dead in another ‘country’

one of those summer mornings I wake up
gasping like a bird in a basket
maybe some ripple through the universe—
I’m not one for metaphysics and I
spilled the coffee on my desk


before the day is stained by people, mouths. Or madness playing
the rent, I keep poetry in my head


I sit on the ceiling
of my sobriety, adding up the avian bodies )everwhite birds(
planted head-first into the floor; my apartment melts—

my apartment is the yolk of the angriest universe, a box in flames often
ashamed of themselves (like children I have to
cajole them, all the time teach them
how to murder)

it’s hot
like love
in here

& I never know if I’m red or blue; mad or insane; I’m
bad news; practice astromancy regularly; want
to drink the Aegean; know what
a heliogravure smells like,
like you.

I’m an ink follicle in the dictionary
& I’m the mad piston running the sun
you’re the fuselage of my verse
& you’re the cerecloth that most mornings wear

the temperature
shying into my life

I’m radiant and I am
deeply unhappy, you’re the storm barking outside
poorly shut windows, which I fix; nothing
gets in;
I write

& that indomitable silence the world over
is its own kind of poetry


Kandinsky – Blue Segment