What we once called carrying and borrowing are now subsumed under the broader head of “regrouping.”
What does not change is not in time. Your shadow is a numeral. The ride required a ticket.
What is not in time attempts to collapse. The forecast is contact, with a chance of scattered intimacy. The rate of exchange was not in my favor. All this took place one block south. You can’t date the building, only the architect. The fear of leaving extended my stay. History had some explaining to do.
The face, an unstable foundation. Under a sky of burnished rust. In this body for now, wearing the clothes – the flesh – the mind is pleased to believe it owns. The organized horizon, restructured like a loan. The properties I part with and control. To translate, in the sense of move across. There, behind a heap of plantains. It was never a question of scale, but one of distribution. A center to arrange ourselves around. Exponential, geometric, arithmetic. All this took place one month back. What did the scar do, jump? The angel, a unit of measure.
A shopping cart. A skeleton. An index of refraction. Insolubility. An accurate assessment. An uneven slope. A tickler file. Indivisibility. A cult of resurrection. A currency debased. A manmade lake. Wading. Diving. A clearing. A hearing. An outcropping. An outpouring. A fabric breathes. A fluid lights. A parking structure keyed to fruit. A funicular, rebuilt.
This is my pile to respond to. Are all of these from other countries – worlds? Compose yourself. Clear water still distorts. Times of sand, language of seas. The lettering lengthens. Legally defined as soot. Inventory the barrels, the crates and cans, all relevant deliverables. The visit was expected from above. The staggered tabs define work’s edges. Cite all omissions. The remainders are reminders. This is my pile of responses.
What attempts to collapse succeeds in time. A weakness in plotting. Marked with a red slash downward. We leveled the peaks to encourage a landing. The excavator’s haul is stored off-site. A plaque at the foot of the Music Box Steps. Many reels of like destruction.
What succeeds in time some failure follows. Thin as mirrors, unobserved, we slip beneath the city, not to be assumed. The washroom, our undercroft.
A blade bisects a cloud.