All bubbles travelling

In tubes, and being lights:  up down and around
 They were:  blue,  red and every man uncaught

                        —Dancer to Audience—

                           What works for me

             As in your flatland stillness you grow.

In the concrete cells of the hatchery
He nourished a dream of living
Under the ice, the long preparations

Here, where the skeins have grown heavy with maybe
salmon at best, where even the choicest bait’s gone
green—the strongest lines left snapped like string; here, where

I guess at last the wall became a kindness,
something, cut off as we were, we could stand
to believe in. Fourteen miles of thatch and thorn.

Its else, to them, lets logic spill through. Upend,
suspend what they no longer want to be real,
return them to credulity and they'll shill

First, you must collect the unfamiliar
pieces, this dither, toward a central hub.
Do not, though, mistake pretended order

The first ending. And knowing it would end
I wanted another. Lover, summer,
pen with which to write it all down.

I enter a shop and see girls playing cards
the girls wear flaming red dresses
the kind you find in the theater

a roach that had been traveling with me since Milan
crawled up by my bed for the last time I had the arriving and
leaving jealousies