From an end is the towards to
No business is the silent business, nodding unreliably so you
appear again. Or be someone else a horse inside yourself, you
have to be kind to the devil he’s in the next house
there’s crocodiles in his hair, he has enemies.
Counting every never come again, the same as being
late you just never stay. The next door devil thinks time
put a spell on you, put a spell on you, that you’re the devil,
no matter how nice you are, how you appear in the darkness
with moths haloing you, the more you try to persuade him, he
praises your silver mouth, you should sing some more like that.
Skittering watchfulness, of being noticed
so elided. As too small, really small, to count
eight lines in the woodgrain tabletop.
They’re there they’re never the same: all they do is
branch, one part out of another the record of it, not
the event itself: why waste your time being specific
it only multiplies the ways you could be wrong.
It’s a problem, blown off and over caulked like
nothing wet is ever going to get in that nest of you
which is never a nest, never a nest, never your home.
Closed and queenly fields all in one color set
against other wild spaces, finding it easy to stay
rattling the best birds check you out, the way
you clang like someone replaced all your plastic parts.
Once you turned twenty-seven you decided to be a lawn
where all birds are welcome ok ok ok you figured out
how to divide your life into little slots one bird long
to feed upon, nuts, science, the gorgeous land,
pavilions representing the gorgeous land, as it’s
terminal so never meaning what could be around.