The girl aligns all the objects in a room. She takes photos. Heralded in the corner, she pushes record and answers unheard questions into a pink and green box. The girl changes colors. She sleeps in bathing suits and thinks up instances where someone she does not know stops her. There is driving. There is no time to look at what’s leaving. There is no time to read about it in a book or underline its shapes. The pink trim speaks to the windows. It swallows up the corners but lets small buckets fill up below. She sleeps on damp blankets and doesn’t move. She dips her hand over the edge and reaches for familiar shapes, unsure if she is lying next to someone she knows. In the grey house there are two beds. One of them is close to the floor, where once she found four hands. In the house on the street with no name the bed folds open and withstands little pressure. Her body as light as it could. She has thinks about water and then packing and then about giving it all away.
& search lights
& intimacy sulk
down the Mississippi,
structure & direction.
If this is “I” here,
then this is not “I”
there and if we skim
along for long enough
we will outlast
what rivals our
warmly brushed faces.
Patterns menace liplessly
in the grown light,
in rolling side steps
& the indelible warmth
of all or nothing.
A lark is a lark,
is a lark, lonely
on a empty top
& wants things
that are still
on this flowing penitentiary,
wants to recollect
one isolated image:
a kitchen with high
chairs, a counter
that one can climb.
Folding chairs and folded paper
taciturn born anticipation
slinging thread crossed and knotted
covering no one, when no one is near
the open glade slides along a metallic edge
a man makes a lake to cool off the land
the ghost show stars 10 little fingers in a plastic case
pink and orange hollyhocks toned by geography in the back yard
the alignment of beetle shells on bark
toad-padded sidelines, their chins pulled tight
acquired by burnishing perimeters
red and swollen and careening
the roaring civilian incident
action waits to be retrieved from those who know better
Chirping from behind the refrigerator
door, degrees varied in warm bodies
& pitching luck caught in garbage cans.
Concession made for larger skeleton hands.
There is either feeling good or feeling bad
or running with explosives duct taped
to your legs, circling around brick buildings
& glazed over by practicality.