94. Too Many Anchovies

cant’

in the form of saying
what is seen
before you
in a not-doing
of some secret speech

splashed, filaments

light as water
light is water
the extravagance of movement motionless
what bears the eye
what the eye bears away

its stunning silhouette and cantilevers

ashake in the wind
where the word went
and the weight held
in balance
and a breath held a second too long

hunted smoggy expense

cloud too low in the valley
arbitrary thoughts
like to say there are so many days till death
counting down into zero
a report, not a retort, and an echo

quarry that sprawling

what we go after
where we pick the stone
extending beyond boundaries of sense
falling asleep at the keyboard
there is no music, just clicking

cudgel the pill

hitting the crab with a hammer
or fighting the tablets
what we write on in swings
how the wind rushes through us
till we release and sail

needle tears a hole

deform to reform
openings into closures
to cry at the prick
and his small rooster
waking the alarm clock

this hiss in which

imagining a snake
and where a snake might hide
in her or a radiator
too early for warmth
too late for sleep

put it to her moth

the sound of the moth
scream like cotton against cotton
the time of the moth
the moth of time
where she kept it safe and moist and warm

pouting but poised to kiss

french fries, gravy, and cheese curds
north enough to be Canada
holding herself in that position
lips against air
hips again mare

broken open at the hoist

fracture of the chest
and the heart falls out
punctured with tiny umbrellas
and flags of all nations
barbed-wire to crown and hold in place

paradox is that creating

pain of the seltzer at the swallow
making it in the shape of sleep
pillow in the shape of a pill
swallowing as a form
swallowing as a form of forgetting

thin veneer of metal

shield for the eye, not the body
quite close to a state of paranoia
shallow in ideas
held in place by place
paralysis of paradox

heaving seas

out the back window
vomit of your eyes
the weight of vision
seeing the wait
having is having

voracious typographical vines

eating in the shape of words
the type who would like the pictures
struggling through a mass of letters
ink in the shape of thought
always hungry, always hungry

rooms, listservs

together in a space for talking
space as a component of communication
listening as a catalog for quarters
wandering the veldt
multiples and then other multiples

He grunts, pushes, clenches

the need to
craving the movement
to enter and center
tension as an object of want
holding it at the end

tremor for each memory

every earthquake passed unfelt
dinner like a school of anchovies
extending into and beyond
the depths of seeing
shaking, always shaking