Reconstructions
Where is my hand
why is my hand
anticipating an early burial
As swallows in spring
who dip in boredom
from their free reign
All of this is garbled
over and over; a boy
is more sure, less aware
of his naked self
He was the boy who believed
in dynamic irrelevant
inner construction machines
He darted in autumnal
palaces of a nothing absolute
on whose music no traveler
is borne alone but somehow
devoutly rooted in hopelessness
and therefore whole
Where was I last with you
departing from one department
to another ad infinitum
that condition
my self in its totality
a place secure in both geometry
and blankets of bucolic vigor
Optometries
At some point arenas no longer appeal to small foxes.
West of the city
I used to be a harlot
and could practice my idolatries
beside the stainless river.
On the bank, every wound is mildly sustainable
as shafts of uncertain light--
their brevity
fresh slopes of wind breaking past.
I waste time hunting cigarettes.
I could decorate the walls with your eyes.
In Posse:
Potentially, might be ... 
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