Near, At

This is one way of structure. To consume what’s least desired first. A pepper’s in the hummus. An eye’s in the preference. Then crossing over, as it does, to choice. Your fingers pry open thick pages of Marx. Between teeth your pen-cap lodged. Preference betrays itself, is not enough. For a while the purple tip merely hovers, indicates continuous negotiation. Between horizons the sun decompresses. To discover the most various type of love, take a circle and stretch it till it bells fat like an oval. To practice the true length of difficulty, of coming back by way of the foreshortened, move along not one, but a nation of souls.

This is one way of structure. To impart auricular grace. Where you are music should be played. Instead, furniture inherently mismatches. But light retains in the flying insect screen. Thin wires approximate the planar situation as you recede, the situation catching the fearless tremble, inaudible music like a pre-cry. Then there breaks down. The brick turning soft. What is a point. “Why” is departure. Life’s too important, you think, to be more-or-less. When you hear it, the motley of textures leaves goose-bumps blinking like a cable-box across your thigh.

This is one way of structure. Start backwards by counting past zero till you’re collecting more than gifts. So the thought doesn’t count and what does is something more real. The weather occasionally means itself, acquires in houses from the basement till rain is no longer XY from which even the poets can possibly grid, extract anything. An overtaking by content so that when we walk out, “it” has turned to hail and “it” is whacking us in every direction, hurting, saying what do you deny what can you possibly say does not belong, is intrinsic to your tomorrow, your life.

It’s your life you think. But the cars slowly pass, and this too is one way of structure. A body in front divides and stitches doubt to a future impact. And what of your hesitation. Life, contrary to the extremes, road-blocked intermittently by certificated starts and ends, has fourth and fifth sounds. Has infinite and no versions. Do you think the wrens are frightened when you step into the yard? And when you feel “it’s” slipping off you, being taken from you because you weren't looking and went down the detour to defrost the cutlets, raise America, wake each night in a body whose arrival you’re sick of but can’t coerce your lover, your self, do you think then you are any less, any more alive? Resonation in air, my God, most sumptuous, defenseless, collective.