In that city I had no 
hands 

–

Breath light-gray as gasoline 
Winter starts at the wrist 
ends in March 

The sidewalk’s narrow saunter 
driving out the 
the very smallest 

A chalk white coat 
part of January 
a bolting pink streak –  

What is that light from within? 
Silk lining 
no, blood red 

I didn’t touch her 
I promise. In this city 
we have no hands. 

–

Under the pavement 
there is no beach, just ice 
just the cold madness of the straight road: Lose yourself 
in eggshell white, 
the crunch of kneecaps 
bursting seams 
my lining splits 

Flocking to the asphalt 
a horde, see  
the muddy mouths of children 
gravel mixed in their gazes 
a ray of sunshine burst through
radiant inert 

The sound of meat being transported, rolled 
over on its side 
into a mouth 
out in a word, 
swallow swallow, 
the incomprehensible lump in the throat, the piles growing, 
putrefying in your 
mouth 

Flashing blue lights on all this shit, 
the hands grope, stretch across – 
twinkling little accident
straddle this crossing now
infernal blue lights 

In my head 
eyes, taunts, blasting open 
this reality     look 


A blinding disorder 
mother, or mouth – 
Street, what is your name? 
Hatch the light from your hand 
gleaming phlegm
the horde, moi 
How she lies there like modern dance 
the neck’s bent promise 
probe, bolt 
the children dodging, sneaking, twisting 
disjointed flapping wings 
bird’s heart 
a flutter at the throat  
The smell of something melting slowly 
Why is it twitching? 

City, landmark, crypt 
Cast away a last killing smile 
Capture the eye – 
Launch and reveal your pink lining 
you stretch out – Rosy  
warming what’s next to you  
Howling face 

Something in long sleeves, something pulled low
turned inside out 

(diseases translated at every border 
the accent incomprehensible 
pig snout, letters of pain) 

The sky presses down like a fading bruise 
Who’s marked our children as they whisper 
about the mother 
Sirens, 
navigate through the mother 
emergency rattle, called to action  
the worst winter, the shortest day 
the longest moment 

Soon you recognize your own home from above 
like an aerial photograph 
the clouds look like fists