Providing that you seem not to care which
The man asleep at his desk was named Jack
In the room over a man likewise
Who picked the zit on his shoulder--Goddess,
You couldn’t blame him, the son of Amy and Daniel
Pale, lanky, doomed, who went to work in steel
Overlooking white space for quick fragrance
One leaves behind as another comes in, holding
The place of her coming in his bearded palm
And rage, another man in front of her, the misspent rumors
Who is brought in for food and they make love.
When you call
When Julius says we try to help every way we can.
When you fistfight
When you wear your clown makeup in perfect indolence
A week later they come home talking excitedly, but in
whispers. Have you seen people whisper before? Voices came from somewhere. But
not these people, have you seen these people?
This is a family of obliquely placed nights
In an auto-accident montage
When they were in elementary school, they were appreciative
of bends in the road. Wear a rose in your teeth. Gravity without reason.
Something about the way men look when they finish their cigarettes. The city
that they had lived on, near the banks of Reeds Lake, had sprawled into Forest
Hills, Rockford, Holland, Ada, Lowell, with the coming of themselves and the
growth of the woodlands into a wild forest.
They were in all things sealed up tightly in vines.
Their disinterested impressions rubbed into
The patent moon—Curiosity, cheeky, new
This also rubbed into the moonwoman
With uncomfortable hair and an ugly
Spot where Earth was interested
Passing the tubers, the students
Stormed, gathered, shook their fists at the massive edge
Of seawall returning, glowering, the men in white hats
saying, Stop Worrying Now
And their chimneys, whose dark smoke had always stunk of
grain, that they would never see again
The intolerable sight of grain
When the man you are supposed to see, the builder your
father knew, who they knew as the keeper of desirable women
When the man you are supposed to be, the surrealist de
Chirico, who danced an obscene and infernal round
For to, the children we had been
The difficultly of thinking of the family. When the mayor
was arrested for treason, his family wept that the child cannot talk about what
it knows.
I think of my family. I draw them
From Lipitor. It does not look like them.
It is not from time to time, possible
We can consider it, those of us who considered its being
like an immortal fact, and assembled in disbelief outside of town when we
learned otherwise
but when they turn to themselves, or glance at a picture, or
somehow find themselves where they had lived, standing in the backyard garden
in the sun that is in their heads, they are
often speaking of the fire, carrying mother's body up the
stairs to recall a dream of
satisfaction
where it shall rest in bed for a night, that it will have
the night the night,
Nor have I ever consciously thought and intended toward
goodness, by
Their coffin they swear this oath and toss sprigs.
After the fact, that's when moral flourishes appear, they
enjoy the spirit
Buildings of cities in places they haven't been—men I did
not know.
I've had enough reason—with far reaching consequences
I read the letter but it's worth slowly goes.
Inherent, he tells me,
Because I am uninterested in history
Save me from the one that got away, the constancy of Long
Island, the coloring, the coast where they see other families, the
distinguished family, wearing wreathes, is there nothing in this world so fair
as rich people?
And they speak in tones to one another, gorgeously, all of
them, the nine generations of girls who swore by moving, their eyes stained by snow
for they believe what they are saying is special, that the
people they are talking to are special, and this is not to be forgotten, what
we are doing, what we have said, the boundaries of which are like the
procession of things not quite remembered, when one turns and wonders
Have I lost the ability to let go!
The simple things, letters tucked under my pillow,
conjurer's teeth.
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