I was there then
& I saw it in some way

Or I was next 
To it, as one of many 
Open eyes with-

Held in open air. 
& I could have starved to death

Thinking I needed that
As a ray of light & living nerves
Is a fire the brain moves through

Caressing the walls
To marry that terror
To certainty, to error a weakening sun. 

It makes me nervous
To be inside of this story
With you under this copper
Sky from which a big blonde
Ink pours reliably over the earth. 

& we would move in this 
As incarnate persons
As immanence machines 

Dropping blossoms for human trees
In this long moment of nausea
In this harder moment of grace

Wherein if the dead no longer
Vomit they do still love
To connect the edges

Inside of experience
Like little gods
Who turn from us to speak

From where in the future the past
Takes place not
Yet devoured, a cold blue
Intimacy of throat & soft
Speech. & I’ll have recalled this 

Awake all night & flagrant
Becoming as snow that melts
In the afternoon sun, 

& as in each puddle a spray of eyes
Blinks back to me the prettiest
Cawing gale, so the flesh 

Of the hands in the moan of the storm  
Is true, & set in motion 

Like some complete & loved 
Rotation of talk 
& hard sun 

& would imprint upon
The visitant earth
That heat & that compounding

Sweet note
Of florid rot

Through which this light would run
Which is the living meat 
Of April & the ghosts thereof.

*

Into something I ask to be melted. 
Into two languages 
Inside my head split with gold 
In the clearness of air. 

& this lump of red
Flesh is distinctly kindred. 
& my toes are in the water, 
Where the long turn is

Afraid of distance so pretty
With hesitation. 

A pair of nice hands
In all things is what 
We think tonight, 

From the inside
Out where the soil in its power admires 

The thought of the bud
That remembers & then is nervous 
To flay the wind. 

& figment
Going further is motion, 
& the blue house

With good reason diverges from 
My company, & space 
As if having kindled many fires

In semi-invented
Shadow makes no new
World to so prolong. 

I would ask to be melted. 
I would so state facts
As to make me that story 

Where out of some picture a line is born
As a voice on a bus at night, 
Or a train

In sepia parade, 
& let this knot of dread

& quiet promise fall over every
Inch of what the flesh would know

In this weather of continuous
Coolness & passing lights,

Where what occurs to me
Is a light that breathes
& speaks to pass the night

A bland & true 
Dream of where the words will go

Of what & who my nothing
Shall greet me with, believing it still

Impossible & serene
My image 
The thing that pleases

My own paltry 
Opposite with throat & dark survey.