The fields, if you remem­ber, smelled noth­ing like the dying
foliage, after fumes from the aero­planes flooded your pos­ses­sions:
the irri­ga­tion sys­tem, the house frame, prayers ris­ing
like an over­ture, when braided together—

They built a small fire to keep warned. Retelling the story
of the rebels who’d run / against the grain—a ret­ro­grade.
Retelling the story of their past to the keep­ers
of their amnesty: I come with­out papers, but can learn.

You built an island of pulp, and swore that time would tell
what space is for. How a body caves (there’s been a cross over,
sig­nals) but its spirit endures (have inter­fered
with local fables.) Writ­ing home—lethal lace—

across a smoke-encrypted sun­rise: the pes­ti­cides led you
to believe that to con­verse, you must rehearse.
Amne­sia says: try to sur­mise a brighter future
I can’t—try again—under­stand you—

As you bow and weep into the dirt the lover is wad­ing through
chem­i­cals, and wait­ing for a sign, cries: the rec­tan­gle
imparted us just can­not rep­re­sent the whole
world. Where the radar detec­tor rests positioned

amid branches, afford­ing assur­ance to dis­or­ga­nized
intel­li­gence: sta­tioned near the TV, wish­ing
you would call me—prac­ti­cally radioac­tive, I think:
that the fam­ily carved their names into a tree sug­gests kindling

is a lux­ury (lan­guage over progress) whereas “warmth” was
the word (progress over inte­ger) the sponsor’s add
splic­ing your heart­break­ing news­cast in half is the new
(has been brought to you) cathar­sis. We were drawn, by night,

into the golden syringe, to find a hoard of riches hid­den
like a home­land, in your chest: a gen­tle breath blow­ing out
a torch of olive-branch proportions—over
a work that’s never done / what a dove failed to mention—

My Euphrates

Under patch­work the color of cow­ardice: our vil­lage. Fall. We are wired to lie.

Detec­tors: also known as vocal cords. The minute I said it I knew it was true.

I needn’t need you / to need to be with you. End­lessly roam­ing o’er the earth’s face.

Thus begins our query. Would the brave youth warn the tribe of glare ice, on returning?

I’d sequenced through—and was through, with the sea­sons; couldn’t cease to seek closure.

Any more / than can up and shift the river. (Would our ances­tors, given time, have tried.

To cor­rect) the stark lack of con­trast (the cataract between us) between ‘set­ting sun’ and strike.

The set—arose the feel­ing I was bleed­ing out of phys­i­cal neces­sity: a newly-dyed garment.

Into long-faded laun­dry, with an infant’s rash locu­tions of believ­ing I have everything.

To lose. One man’s heart felt shot / in the dark, may appear kaleidoscopic—in turns.

And in turns, sim­ply bro­ken: appro­pri­at­ing oxy­gen, appro­pri­at­ing heat: a band of fireflies.

Ignit­ing agate-blue inside a glass case, The Red—see: black logic—a sus­pended stream.

Of con­scious­ness, ‘til hunger bade the frozen mouth open. Luke­warm. Nature is to nurture.

And aught implies can: so unquench­able poten­tial, if all in the wrist—must flash.

Over: from a fire in the for­est to “for­est fire” (from the trees to the wood.)

From “the man” to “the empire”—if I were your mother, when the flame was.

Still young, would you have sung: what would I do with a kingdom?

The Film­strip Marathon Con­spir­acy Trials

Your first night alone overseas—plagued with jet­lag and transparency;

a kill switch trans­ac­tion with the terse French teller, and flow­ery
com­men­tary by a mon­tage of seers; your vir­gin taste in rela­tions
uncon­di­tional and affin­ity for exotic affairs that would fol­low;
the daily horo­scope which left you want­ing more—until Vogue
released His & Your Con­stel­la­tions; a wish inspired by a child
–hood rock col­lec­tion; first and fore­most to know thy jew­elry;
[memo: the first and last time you’ll swap num­bers at the bank]
the hijacked plan to see just the pyra­mids, the Lou­vre, the sun,
and the moon, before crash­ing in the evening and dream­ing
of you; the entourage of actors who will suf­fer & wan­der through
the City and the Yel­low pages, search­ing for an agent; your last
name nailed to the wall of a museum; an amphibi­ous exis­tence
that sup­ports itself accord­ingly: sus­pended, with class, between
era­sure & a hard place; those relays which con­sist of more batons
than con­tes­tants; my body blown from vil­lage to vil­lage; when
a spirit gets can­did and slowly turns its gaze: from the prince—
to the mirror—fixing on the future; the frog col­lec­tion you once
kept with your brother; the first physics exper­i­ment to spawn
from a safari On the Shelf-life of Water­logged Flora, and indeed,
 “Noah’s fam­ily stayed on board, even after he ran // out of sub­jects.“
On your mark, help­less, the gun­shot, where, the quote, do I go;
the inter­ven­tion you insisted was unfair & pre­ma­ture; this post
card slip­ping, twice slurred, through your fingers—like a lily pad
lack­ing in motive & sender while a fig­ment as long as the Euphrates
evolves: inau­gural pro­ces­sion, new year, funeral, the some­thing
pur­ple that caused you to swoon: Mer­lot, Androm­eda, the Aster
scented tomb; a wed­ding party set­ting the cadence for the gar­den;
a trusty syringe; a bubble’s frag­ile orbit; gib­ber­ish fol­lowed by quiet

fol­lowed by: clos­ing now, who­ever you are—find what you look for.

to do with the price of tea in China

Has not the hatch at four o’clock.
Not bar-close, Ouroboros, our need

To be taken down ten­derly,
Dawn-ward & spiraling—

Nor have my mid­night bit­ters
Gone Earl Grey, a team of wild-mare

Spir­its dragged behind a team
Of drown­ing bodies

Steered lucid to their death, no—
Salve, no—Sun

(has nei­ther weeks nor months
to say noth­ing of seasons)

As where lungs inspire: Life’s idea
Of rest is both epic & pending

To say need­less, to say leave me
This snake around my neck

Or else untouched, as food
For thought is mere dew drop

Or if pearl-strung: has not orbit
Has not steeped long.

Lemons—the bag-lady’s eyes
All a-scurvy—bound-to-beg

The ques­tion of the fruit­ful­ness
Of falling: has not leaf-change, has

Boat-steam not obscured things
Hasn’t night a higher thief

Than brute form? Reflec­tion, say.
And now, say water color.

Bluish con­stel­la­tion sweat­ing
Bul­lets through the dark

Noose, loos­ened noose, that whore
Of a noose— Lavish Dread.

Let down your hair, this time
I drink to you.

As a storm starts else­where. As the motion
Pic­tures in which we lose our­selves end
With a stark light flood­ing the bod­ies we are
Left inside: the lux­ury of con­trast pro­vides
That when a plane lands, the sound sur­mounts
Our understanding—it lands too soon, and is
The only song in the sea. Through my shat­tered
Win­dow of Time: even music seemed pol­luted;
All the graf­fiti in the world, inspired to aban­don
Its intended surfaces—somehow reap­pear­ing
Around a sin­gle sil­ver barge; around the barge,
Reap­pear­ing: the con­duc­tor, draped in riv­ières
Of acid, unloads his catch while around him:
A junkie wan­ders, stut­ter­ing the Rosary—still,
By virtue of inven­tive­ness learned to con­fis­cate
At least one piece of equip­ment that would last
Him through the night: a radio, or fram­ing device:
Through which my metaphor for win­ter grew
To encom­pass the over­lap­ping moons, the moon
Obsess­ing over water color trends / appro­pri­ated
Fash­ion schemes—so that, in the false har­bor
Of Feb­ru­ary, just the thought of you results
In a cacoph­o­nous break­down of parts I’d no idea
I needed. Rain sea­son. A sched­ule, both blurred
And decep­tively full, of new pro­ce­dures: prepar­ing
For a mur­der, and now, and again, its reversal—