77.

77.

No one recognizes me I don’t bring it up to cry over it (though I do)

sympathies are inadvertent this is the symptom of an event animals

acting weird invisible vapours through the door of a friend’s blank stare

know not what I do whose intention infiltrates whose weather lip-balm

clorophyl and hoarded oil of things cold flash in a stranger’s face

who knows what the moment does to mind what event is all we know

is that we need to know

uncollected newspapers

sidewalk crowded with leaves

a bridge of spies, leaves

of the farthest tree

perceiving, and ourselves

perceptions streets lit by the heat

at the heart of things

new bicycle in a broken lane

I marry the faces

that scar me, because the book

is never the book the event shows

its back all the way out,

speech is telekinesis

turning it back, which chariot

takes us to and is itself

the front of things only to the book 

can we say what we mean

crows collecting some

shimmering language

the conveyance of stuff

ardent images crowded around a single face 

of which there is none, to carry back across still breathing this familiar

living through lives those articulate environs a tree you can finally hear.