We are on the bed in front of a fan listening to the street fair downstairs. You don’t understand, is what I say and I really mean it. It’s just one of those things where you’re quaking. Is it because of the fading daytime, like you’re a memoir clogging my inbox. Out of focus. Another deep anchor pulling at my resolution. Is this worth it for me.

Compensation hitting hard on the floor. I heard that song, the de-rooting of the juniper.

Do you hear all the voices dislodged as they whip through the trees like masses of starlings.

I think starlings are the men of birds. The objective end to the thunderhead. I’m at their writing’s limit, the realization being dislodged. It has an orange middle. 

My predilection for profuseness, the profuseness of corroding infrastructure

There is no experience of unmediated desire available to us. The host city maintains that you are exposed. I lifted my harm, small, above my waist. Of commutes thru buried wetlands, of deep study on trains, thru the service stations. We can look under the off-ramps to see the WRONG intimacy. Airless tunnels of art. The jurisdictions pushed outside of the argument

We travel to readings thru the self-storage high-rises

ECHO: Soon my image of you merged with the image of Nancy Bush by her husband’s side, a totally unnecessary account. Not a move toward minimalism, but maybe a similar Beckett-move of flipping destitution on its head. A flower! No lyric has ever stopped a tank.

And yet I know, the sun came up and we stumbled out of the river, silver with cold fog. I was such a failure. To this, the reduction aimed its recovery. Its breathing in the deviation.