POEMS x 2
I'm not fixin' to get rowdy, venture
hills of squills, the rarefied checkout line,
since winter: we've formed our truces today.
away from words: real refinement (I can't
does anyone want? Discovery creeps
of mingling my mother warned me about—
my haloed seeing rues transparency,
yearn, perceiving only how vertigo
I traffic in the elided spaces
I count on the one thing I can't count on,
offering the bed's critique of resolve
of taking care, I had little left to
okay? Such chronic scraps wangle, shimmy:
"An inspected geography leans in with the landscape's repetitions," writes Bob Perelman in a.k.a., and I'm inclined to agree.