Faucet’s sound a phone ringing, as sweat
continues long after a jog and evidence
may ever only suggest, So pears hang
like transcontinental airplanes’ oxygen
masks in the side yard where small ferns
are, Whereas sun xylophones through worn
barn slats and the water looks clear
once it settles, Time of day in which you
do not sit under a tree but beside it, Now
I believe in ancient Indian poetry one lover
far from another thins until the sound
of dropping bracelets covers the city,
If the sun is unpictured in theory these shadows
go on forever bracelets dropping, They have
a theater made only of curtains, but I’d prefer
you shouldering a bedsheet, think
of that curtain touching the brick water
moving again so nothing is clear but present
COSTING NOT LESS THAN EVERYTHING
I took to taking mine with sugar. The whole
nonfiction. I like your smell, she said.
Her teeth turned, as from not saying something.
Echoed branches. To pass a threshold as an hour.
A piece burned enough, it served as slower fuel.
I had no idea. Barn patched with wire.
Branches in wind we learned a position from.
He carried a coal in his pocket. He wanted
to black out his prints. And: to leave them on
the river birches. This was seasonal in every season.
They leave the heads on rabbits so you know
it’s not a cat. He would stew it with onions.