Faithful mother tongue
I have been serving you.
Every night, I used to set before you little bowls of colors

How parched, how marrow-dust dry
they must get on their long surface and undersea
journeys—huge stuffed husks,

The moon as brittle as a tooth

The moon mistaken 
For a fortune coming true

I was on top, pressed into the scent
    you left at night on the shabby
bed. We were both on add and you said

The censorious

Goon flight.

Time is the grainy thing that cordons
its own descent like lips

Death defying darning, ambassadorial
clip mimic dazed proclivity almonds

What chainlink beckons, held in
Hand, for pleading bleeds the
Finer augur’s talon. 

Throughout this collection there is a feeling of investigation asa a way for both self- and social discovery, and for music. An opening of the field…that is already inhabited.

 An oval bed of nails held the arrangement in the half-light from an adjoining room, where perforations trained puffs of air against metal fingers to draw Brahms from the upright.