Recapitulation Tale

Hannah Brooks-Motl

Your tongue a very clever hideous bird a fleshy brush or perhaps a tiny prophet—

A cruel activity involving both the freezing and leashing of bees and the tragic murder of context abstracted from other mistakes: this is how we think of thought, of all the many rooms no longer lived within it is both soundless and linguistic

Three men pass around a key. It is perfection to be previous or is it surface we remained this way for hours, doo-dads on the wall

All the sidewalk, all the future, all the demented plosive of all the frame

The method to make sound is we never stop it like dirt, simple and resonant, with several particular names for no one particular thing


Sad her. His lovely hair wanders a bit perhaps into the philosophical implications of biography, which is not wisdom, learning, art 

No greater quandary in fashion than the umbrella; her past was obscure for personal reasons out beyond the stippled forest fear was delight and looming

If the man was named Robert or Chad, Honza set his shot on fire as excitement bewildered the dogs how the ginger here felt roughened too

So I came to a priority: this is the church I abused and the alcoholic in my chest marooned upon the balustrade while ladies demised in a bonnet. Like the fever he went upon her there

On stages ample then eternal her range met mountains, the deep grass going rotten as a lime. I cannot drive the car


I cannot climb the clammy cell was brimming and we turned to the town, to the detail of them

A snort then a hoof in the dark circulated beyond aesthetic frontiers, serious and profoundly romantic

A mordant perfectibilian, a man of no fun but not even money is made out of money— she remained upright, flattered on pleasure books

Bauble, whatnot, frizz: it is actually a deafening situation though there is no more worthless trope than sight (save maybe winter)


A walk in certain districts changed a shirt from pale yellow to grey but now the shirt must be somewhat grey already 

A nation has neither heart nor spirit nor body nor soul nor voice, baggie and cash


Out of a lupine past has the past carted a truly handsome man—lambasted in perception—and has this emitted simply?

Mating and golden with one clubbed finger who drew this page of heart’s unendingness


At that time she had been living in the caravan for six months, had a toy poodle, is it for certain that memory helps us in so many ways?

In submitting to her acknowledge the exchange of her in farther places 

When she comes to the mood of the chat singing that song like this work is simply common myth, about the crickets


It must take 
in everything 
must go 
toward love 
a mighty opera 
falling in


I have entered the aura of the stagnant pond forever gesturing back at itself in an idiom we find now difficult to allow 

Architecture is this magnificat and I will stand as penance or slump in a cup, expertly arrayed in my throb coat

For there is power to note the sun

At these hours