My voice carries further, almost
All the way to the face, I go
But not forth, or I went suspended

I have killed the sentinel.
He was my brother
And was duly grateful.

I meant to wake up and had or had not
To the lines from an ordinary song
I saw my problem as that line

I mime my own story,
the body describes itself.

That summer the sand rusted,
The twigs cracked more easily. A worker was sent for
To carry away broken pipes and in their place put

The past of having makes the present
Bleed and then we’re asked to
Forget it like imagined slights

In the basin where the brain was
The twelve paleontologists
Assemble around the banquet table.

The smashed curb affirms
That there can be no substitute for poetry.

I have to tell my mother the night

is a house in which are no knives.
The heavens grow hell blue

How distant
this hard bright terrain
that separates us