In a freakish
system of accounting
with trappings of one who
belongs I de-bone
each landscape, cramming bridges
and money back inside, can’t help
I just want candy all
the time to sweet
and sop the lazy drool of something
smart to say. I will
know what was lost when
I see it, it will be
in your fist, your fist fisting into
unspeakable accrual and
aversion. A shard that lips
at the bottom of
my lung keeps me
from getting there. Cut
around the bone, it is not
a pocket. Is it possible that
I have done no harm. Is a
wound sentimental by
necessity. I open my windows
onto the street so strangers
may watch me sleep.
