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for Eric, Ed, Stephen, and Cy
Contents
§
The dark collects our empties, empties our ashtrays.
Did you mean “this could go on forever” in a good way?
Up in the fragrant rafters, moths seek out a finer dust.
Please feel free to cue or cut
the lights. Along the order of magnitudes, a glyph,
portable, narrow—Damn. I’ve lost it. But its shadow. Cast
in the long run. As the dark touches us up.
Earlier you asked if I would enter the data like a room, well,
either the sun has begun to burn
its manuscripts or I’m an idiot, an idiot
with my eleven semiprecious rings. Real snow
on the stage. Fake blood on the snow. Could this go
on forever in a good way? A brain left lace from age or lightning.
The chicken is a little dry and/or you’ve ruined my life.
§
I had meant to apologize in advance.
I had meant to jettison all dogmatism in theory and all sclerosis in organization.
I had meant to place my hand in a position to receive the sun.
I imagined such a gesture would amount to batter, battery. A cookie
is not the only substance that receives the shape
of the instrument with which it’s cut. The man-child tucks
a flare gun into his sweatpants and sets out
for a bench of great beauty and peacefulness.
Like the girl my neighbors sent to Catholic school, tonight
the moon lies down with any boy who talks of leaving town.
My cowardice may or may not have a concrete economic foundation.
I beat Orlando Duran with a ratchet till he bled from his eye.
I like it when you cut the crust off my sandwiches.
The name of our state flower changes as it dries.
§
In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly,
to renounce the body’s seven claims to buoyancy. In my day,
our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained so beautifully
that cause began to shed its calories
like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With great ostentation,
I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day,
we were reasonable men. Even you women and children
were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure in every question
we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were left undone.
Now I am the only one who knows
the story of the baleful forms
our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not
horrified of how these verbs decline—
their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?
§
What
