And when you are finally caught and questioned, it is discovered, sadly, that you know nothing of use. Your captors exchange glances, nod. You are released in the freedom of some afternoon,

My mother was glamorous in a way I knew I 
never would be. Velvet belt buckle. Mascara 
lash. Miniature crimson lipstick living in the 

Let us console you. 
Music’s the answer. 
Of course, we’re caught 

Now I’m an archivist. Indexer of everywhere 
I have ever been. Of every ­moment I stood 
there and there. Of where I was when I was 

Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.

Does the erotic exist outside architecture? The shepherd 
asleep, the shepherd awake—his staff in his hand. Sweet 
are the fields of. Exiled from home am. A sandwich of 

Some days, everything is a machine, by which I mean 
remove any outer covering and you will most likely 
find component parts: cogs and wheels that whir just 

From where she sat she could see
a sundial, but she couldn't read it.
Time was a brush fire burning somewheres,

“The quick brown fox jumps
Over the lazy dog”: it was a little bedtime story

It's time for the feasting that follows the four men it took
to carry the dead monster's head.
Just look at the clock—