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 

God’s nose-end,
White nothing tower,
White-bearded, socketed face.

Little liquor-drink umbrellas drowse
At the margin of the mouth hole,
The moon eye, an open coronal

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 

She puts her ticking wrist to her ear and hears a house
Full of Tock from the clock that is lacking a stem.

Had she not lain on that bed with a boy
All those years ago, where would they be, she wondered.
She and the child that wouldn’t have been but was now

But quiet was a difficult thing to be.
The heart makes a jump-start sound.

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