Paint These Each
One fruited toward a swift bowl
One not sweet
One rainlit seizure
One amendment
One to parfait by
One to breathe
One imaginary notary
One to lift or to have lifted first away
One intense
One imbued intensity
One string still
One vibrating
One recollection
One of us which
One of us
A Pixel, A Paxil
Everything in its usual infancy
Where does one wait to circumvent
Already having gone wrong
Guesses do their magic
The supposed injustice
One might deduce
Might interfere with granularity
Work
What will remain is what was done
To fill a void hypothesized
Within the relay
Sans this flow
Of gesture and intention
This Morning
After a swatch of sleep,
The young one told the others
Yesterday when his mother left
Her eyes were red from crying
When he asked
She told him nothing
He knew it would be soon
Before two parts of him
Would turn to separate worlds
He would be living in
Two places, speaking two ways
Remembering word-for-word each story
And not sharing certain ones,
For fear of splintering
Two parts of him
Turns Out
One knows practically nothing
For purposes of suddenly
Moving into that emergency we keep
Threatening will arrive,
Then over and over,
It does not, and all the fear
That fuels the already pessimistic housing
That enshrouds
The frail or rigorous or perfect
Mental, physical, and hypothetical
Concoction that is human,
Suddenly and without stoicism,
Breaks into this paltry
Thing that knows
Less than what we say
It ought to know
And everything is dismally distracting,
And it is hard to think, as with a fever,
Everything that wants focus
Loses focuses peremptorily:
The daisies are too slow,
The dandelions, even the willow branches
Fail to touch the ground;
The plethora of reasons
To remain alive begin
To minimize their quality,
And mis-recollection gradually begins,
So the lines that might have touched
No longer touch,
The yells or whispers
Thought to reconnect some severed instances
Let go their reach,
And a form of slavery ensues,
The kind the will in secret made
At night one time,
That eventually caught on,
And then became
The one still shot
Replacing any theorized mobility
The Month of Autumn
As leaves dry they dress the ground
We have a path to walk
As safe as any tinder
Littering this segment of a line
A day as usual
As glorious a time of year
Time and Place
It used to be entirely possible to breathe Central Standard Time.
I live in Arizona is a sentence close to the equator.
Absolution comes to me.
I continue learning shark repellant phrases
To reduce the probability of being swept
as an enlisted woman into predators’ rotation.
Crops, do we communicate?
Whatever seeds are misted over acreage induce a commonality
Among the likes of me.
Let us compare disinclinations taken from the song sheet of geography.
For now, there are divinities unlatched from mustered altruistic teething.
Let us fade from workaholic venturing into creosote-like stench.
This form of madness will be soon acquitted from a rematch,
Basting leitmotifs with a reduction sauce already minced
From insufficiency.
This Coffee
Soft as chalk, its opposite
In hue and shine, this surface
Where black coffee has been
Spilled, thereby absorbed
Into rubbed wood
This disappearing conversation
To which we are accustomed
This coffee
Soft without the bitter taste
This coffee without milk
This conversation’s opposite
In eyelit silence
When syllables cease sounding
The perfume of sound
Equally no sound
Dry rubbed wood includes
Small spill beside
A near-full cup of coffee
