There is always the door you just came through.
Some people will forgive you right to your face.

Imagine then a blue fog as the lifetime of your speech
and noises. From far away it would appear like an organ,

your most dear external organ, both dutiful and corrupted.
It swells faintly. Who is in charge now, it wonders about you.

Some dimensions fall out of use,
out of the blue air, flat above you.

I didn’t need to know that light is old.
There is always some broken net

caught in some cold cogs, not extraordinarily
silent, why fight? I fought because

I was so far off. Because I am in a kind
of love, sheer & oblique as depth-long seaweed.

Comments are closed.