what does it
mean. guessing
not touching.

touching —
not knowing

that something
unsaid. waiting
for undone

circum-
stances
to turn

become
known

then
unknown

how rescue a
self — body
corporeal?

an empty

a bottle

a poem
w/o grace,
(outside of)

therapy perhaps,
excrescense

lost theory

impatience

all impossible

moments

“learn
to let go”

–touching
one to
the other

twine

to weave over
gaps–
to answer

with
generous
silence

–questions
–unasked

between
bodies

these wrists
have no pins
to hold them
in place

i don’t
understand
why

or how

they still
hinge upon
my breath

blood

loyal
to the
fingers

fell into a spot
on the screen where
mind ignores flesh.

it supposes; there is
always supposition
waiting in the lungs;

reminders

how old i felt
at the age of eight;
full of phlegm —

oh Philip Whalen, how’s
your topology now? &
how to get out

from behind the wall?
i have no will today

i’m waiting for wings.

this internal clock
leads me (little
Moebius strip)
on, not onward.

romancing the

selves. little self

hatreds & loves

propagate while

the great verbs

graze. the music

we flavor it with,

the bitters

the desert is not
a clean slate nor
is the body nor
are you

but

in the afternoon the shoulder blades are quiet. i am reminded of shears or birds with scissor beaks. earlier they were invisible, but as the years wear on they become self conscious because of the posture of the the subject.

the subject relies on parts and strings them together to form a whole. they do not stick together in a unified field. they rely mostly on touch and aversion. inside is a country that is rarely visited, mostly unseen. there is a trench separating each side, a gutter for rain.

the photographer’s sepia print uncovered her back; there was, i remember, a spectacular vulnerability about the nape of her neck. the small hairs pointing to it, and she pressed against the wall as if in agreement with the scene, which was unfinished, and left with blurred edges.

this shape of a word runs counter
to everything. too specific it turns

one around. tugs and shapes you
just play out a long line for ego

pretty leash with so soft a collar
it won’t notice how the changes

change you. how the letters will
write you, full of good intentions

but some words best left unsaid
gaps or gafs between fetters

writing on your skin
with invisible ink: can
you guess what word
this is? can you read

across your back,
and over the curves
of your ass what
ligatures join letters

to say what’s on
my fingertips? serif
or sans? italic or
times roman? sans
speech, sans sight,

sleepy in the dim
afternoon light; play
this guessing game.

what is to work in this century but a restraining
act upon the body, much like a hog tie or a trained

seal. Or a wax seal upon the lips. It’s a training to
the mirror to which you are bound. The scene

you think you’ve created with little hooks and
tape; but maybe there is such a thing as love to

mediate between you and the world as you step
out into neighborhoods unknown and 7-elevens

of the night. String words out as long as possible
what the naked bard called breath; call it measure

of a man, or American loneliness. Say, a woman
makes herself into metaphor, and kneads it like

dough. She calls it blood, or loss, or working
that importuning, her inevitable every day.