Everything in this will get developed further, but I felt it was interesting enough as a start.
We were designed for you by “the (s)elf.”
Who thought there must be a poem somewhere
in the little blob. Who, when you read that
as you paused in mid-cross and asked,
“Are you writing about me?,”
had to say “yes,” to hide the habit.
Streams of what streamed in to the offshore station
That shadowed organ by the tree leg here again.
Again as in memory,
a room the opposite of its acts. Our long
ones mean to whisper.
This was meant to be possible—we’ll see.
Canvassing the next.
Guarded to elapse.
for lick, I mean luck
spent a nub of sun
in the mud this day
the people in the vilage
or, if you insist,
while where you come from
the poses have names
Abachi, Kuzi, as if from the East,
as if to hang from the ceiling
equal to their names: say Sadiq
The head came off this morning.
The words are freezing in the hallway
The ones that I had meant to hear
The smell of mown grass
always mixed with gasoline
Yet the methods seem to have made some areas safer
There are times of day when the sea looks o.k.
We build on that and reduce a fiction
to a system of localized spinelessness.
Only those snails
that represent the many dead.
At this point,
an intervention into the way things were going