Vine Street yellowing across. What it is cracks in
Time kisses its own back.
Vine Street greening over.
There was a sense of lost nostalgia,
A glance over the writing in the other room. Out in
the street, midnight,
it, spilled in little tips of water.
What it is stuck in itself. On the arch of Noon is
the edge. what is yet to become
Left in the light—full of the back, slowly across There, the ones who were left over. That, as simmer, touches this poem. The exquisite line of your lips—breaks open this poem. Nothing else begins to lighten—
through the window—
A rug, in the places that had stuttered.
Woven into the fabric was, in places, that which had
to walk each other.
the places left behind—read: could die. this poem as if there
And "was", and "and", and "enough"—she—and nothing more than she—as us, to do.
"I find it fascinating how language can open up and simultaneously shut down on itself—I see that happening in this poem, without any direct interference from the authors. I suppose we owe a post hoc debt of gratitude to Ted Berrigan."