Calmly clouded Tuesday.
The chateau is closed.
Nothing glitters.

Destination, in the land of never enough,
   is the cornice of all I can give / all that I know,
         given over to deep blue sky.

And I say my poems are getting too loose
flopping like clothes on a line
bright colored Bodies

shit flows downhill he who loves power
gets to be king he who loves love
gets to be priest kings and priests

a buried child
comes unearthed

a zero sum
a gaping hole

there all along
one step ahead

and fallen into
midsentence

he imagined her naked
in his big bed at night

Company

I've lost my stately others and now there is me with neck
Erect and solemn, tightened face. Sometimes I feel they are
Peering out from behind white curtains, clutching with long

Fat Russian novels are sinking
like grandmothers into the snow,
and a troika is whisking through my sleevs

It surprises me how quickly I can conjure
You before me, more familiar to myself
Than my own mirrored face. You sit

My mind long gone, having forgot to shut the body
             off, I will lie in some spare room,
some former nursery, entranced by waiting for death

Heathrow could not touch things. 
They always shied away from him.

He was magnetic, but in the anti-sense of the word.