of fixed points after
thoughts of architecture
lets loose into rain
One day you will die too, she said. We watched the children play: pink wrists
grasping the horizontal world. High in the tree: leaves. No grave chorus to
accompany tulle skirts crumpling in wind.
Rain falling everywhere: a moving axis. Extending into the horizontal world in
redness and yellow. Part of her daughter dangles, disguised as the woman I was
meant to be—a texture of gold foiled notes.
Blips occur as sentences. I’m almost complete. I have all my fingers.
The simplicity of muscles witnessed in hand’s curvature: A body is not everything we
are taught to expect. Watch closely hear sloughing cells.
An idea given over to the same and I think about how sentences
function, gagging at a response, now too late.
Mustard flowers slope toward a chain link fence like nearly broken line drawings.
Badly covered tattoos dividing traffic hide so many scars. Such careful linearity
traced in the word: protrusion.
To stream toward recollection is to access memory through what’s
discarded. The ex-husband. Scraps. Locks of your black hair. Protruding
bones. Leftovers kept on rounds of crackers to eat again and again.
Bodily; shadow casts fragments.
Light meets hollow space through
the opening and closing of thumbs—
a ritual of belonging.
The gift of vultures hiss overhead, their intermittent wings offer complexity as your
hair grows back for the second time. High in the tree: leaves bend recalling
An open sore—progressing subtly from yellow to orange to brown. In this
moment of collapse the actual beginning has already occurred, witnessed by
corneas looking to undesired places: everything slowly eroding.
Tell me everything will be fine.