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October 2015
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December 2015

November 2015

eight books :: easy form

-

word

weeds

window

wisher

winter

womb

webbing

wanted


- -

There these

others owed

us ointments

powders pictures

We wanted

lucky love

for free

for free


- - -

Marked for character

then characterized as

a chartered rumination

not a charted

ruined charlatan but

charred beyond all

change to a

bone a charm


- - - -

Here’s a new song

Believe me I’m red

along the lines of

a dragon’s fine eye

I’m red in a

portrait of the wild

white storm they sent

us near the end


- - - - -

Note that the first two

appear to be forms of

passive release signs in a

stream of language that our

vacancies want to be left

alone empty in the wound

full of heat and coughing

loud after lovers in faces


- - - - - -

If like you made a living

cajoling joy out of public rooms

if like you held recent crimes

namely all red under yellow skies

if like anybody could sing it

bitter & pathetic as a prince

if like you are condensed roses

sing it improbably sing it down


- - - - - - -

And then picked up this book here

so mild that I put it down

on the cool table where we sat

over coffee yours full of blank cream

mine dark as the authentic lyric you

replaced with a laugh later that morning

The actual leaving the sacrifice we made

without our imagination after a few pages


- - - - - - - -

Just a word before you move on to

the flowers They owe us weeds for songs

so many windows in the air But you

are one impatient wisher You push me on

This winter I’ll think red inside of blue

an articulate womb say kicking on as one

flies through webbing of grain in a few

unwanted ticks Is any one breath ever enough