Airplanes take us where we’re going and leave us there,

I crisscross my feelings with a view  
of street, people walking, some crazy looking, from a window 

              a box          a camera with a one-track mind

behind it

                 can’t see too good

Perhaps I’m kidding myself about
the life I lead

Sometimes I feel I’m dying

lines which are the imitation of imagined veins

                   passing thru my quivering city

     “your city?”

It’s so cold in here I can’t do anything

You stow them to the rear of worship: bits of jagged iron, 
candle nubs, miscellaneous gears and levers, each perfect 
unto itself but useless apart from its fellows. The human 

PUGIN
I was reading a biography of Pugin. Architecture
was how Pugin avoided God.
This much is evident. When he slipped out at night
to drift down to the water he was a smoke.
He did not look up at the moon. We can be sure
that any bargain he made was intentional
especially those he bound in straps made of snow.

The line, its sleek ark. Stow the creatures where the calendar
can’t snatch them. Coal is unreasonable in all its phases.
Into the open pearls, I was, at first, sure I’d read. The coasts of it, 

It was not male, who galloped
across a divided 
landscape, or female.