Going to sleep, I cross my hands on my chest.

to be more aimlessly fluttering atthe window, to shadow all the patternsit offers each sun. In frames far as eyeI draw my words towards a juggler’s shardsas if our fallings-down our deaths occurredbut did not involve a lot of colloquializedarm movements, the body language throws. Thusthe shape of your silence when it speaks meis different…

Empties its mote of closeup traceDown screens that blink blank blipSomewhere between countdownAnd coma time is a lineWhere waking centuries oftenDrained against that measure we findOur blood redshifts (direction: west)Until film can clone one sunWith stars both whole and goneAttending every sequelWe pray for an intent equalTo our interest

off its edifice and sprinkling themso as to find what lies behind usacross the featureless fairytalevoid of childhood: yet how very quickthat trick wears out when the story’s tracktakes hold, takes toll, a far-older trailprevails, we’re forced to give up this lostcause; and the fact is that every lastmorsel was gone long before the youor…

Boarded up, billboarded over, with ads for wind-insurance.Similarly, swimmingly, I miss the point. You too?And my misunderstanding doesn’t stop there, it grows–soonI can’t see why that sudden influx of fugitives,All the world’s escapees, rubbing themselves lasciviously against theBerlin Wall.They stick like placards to it. Like napalm. Like ads for–And me, I haven’t even bought my…

Its brass plaque depicts an oxygen eyein which two pupils of hydrogen dance.Downstairs is where I lit fires whose insightswith approach-velocity froze me, thensinged off into flame. This always happened whenI came close to a truth. Months passed. Years. Nights.Shall I accommodate myself again,a humble aquarium of lordlythumbs, some fin de species? Of course each…