Scribbled on the expansive mist, the desire
of many dwindles to us
and our “activities,” wholesome

The deep water in the travel poster finds me 
In the change as I was about to back away 
From the idea of the comedy around us— 

I’d had a “good night’s sleep,” meaning
thinking of waking, and waking,
shifting closer together, and then not.

My sister and I don’t seem to get along too well anymore.  
She always has to have everything new in her house. Cherished ideals  
don’t suit her teal, rust and eggshell color scheme.  

Then I reached the field and I thought 
this is not a joke not a book 
but a poem about something—but what?

as was proven 
when they entered the house 
in which the priest was, 

You said you don’t want to know any more  
than you do now, of every thing that might be  
a person. It would be cheating. That is urgent.  

For all I know I was meant to be one of those marchers
into a microtonal near-future whose pile has worn away—
the others, whose drab histrionics provoke unease to this day,

Not that it was needed that much, this much
was clear. A little cleverness would do
as well, a lei woven of servility

Silly girls your heads full of boys
There is a last sample of talk on the outer side
Your stand at last lifts to dumb evening