notes

Why is it when I think of the concrete nothing

comes to mind but the empty ground and the clementine 

I picked up in that sad grocery store

and replaced with me in it. I was choosy so they left me

to the special entrapment of hell.No sea-plant 

no dragon-stone no Uruk either. Gilgamesh 

is forever explored by loss; no home is home again.

Things wound us and are themselves deathless,

unthinkably marked, as the heart devoured in some grimoire.

The heart is a loss whose torsos ache in relief against the stylized night.

Across long lawns animals cross into silence with mind’s behavior.

A crash. Red stag in the pond, ice like Liszt runs across the surface.

Fur and thick breath, down, and falling together deeper with shared 

thickness silvered and the dead mouth crowds with gems and fact.

I am fact. The actor from Pasolini’s Mystery Play La Ricotta risks his life for lunch 

under an auburn sky. Sweaty Jarlsburg and whole-wheat bread

that might taste good on a stone by the orchard with a fear of snakes. 

The Christ directs an alchemy whose stages are in associative entanglement 

in each even unsavory cunabula. Any thing is two. Time covered

in crumbs and the pervasive smell of freshly scrubbed floor. 

The mouth fills with lavender from a writing heavy and open-ended. 

Your missing footsteps press on their way about the apartment

kindling a small fire there whose presence is a fact of cognizance 

counted. The Jarlsburg that is sweats from the other side, 

itself a heaven whose extensive reckonings hiss with mortal risk.