Such passengers on route to the nightly
Museum: kettle lit from damp explanations
Of birds, fisted mags, wild dish on the pane
Soil wondering, it’s unfair to tell if I can say
What’s happened in this crowd of rooms
Before Venus kills the moon in a fit
Of adequate rage.

A sonnet is a cup of train songs

Folded at the mouth of ligature

Polled tight, counting off the

Weeks of collapsing lights if I

Remember no fault of education

That no one is looking at your heart

Even as it’s removed from the package

You cannot hear the room from this angle
And know its minor threat as a singular
Metaphor for loss and the predecessing angels
In some form of time turned out by quiet
Industries aligning the main course days
We stutter through when the endives
Are gone. The mired ways to see habit as
A memory performed against a body of
Hope and stays, it’s to you I narrate the
Clouds setting down over the trees in
The morning in the country we don’t
Live in. To bant mad about the old ways
In the sun, to love in the shaking dawn
Of a strange bed. On canvas we drove
North to have a day against the future
Store lit up with vibrant apology. An
Eight-letter word rounds its duration
From the factory of good vibrations
Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday
Monday, happy, dazed ours, to have
Laid down on light.

Some number of lines to call the end
Of the year its bluffing cab, the man
Coming in to the reception to avert
The machines, the solemn taste of the
Wedding floor on the winery, names
On the ceiling of your ordinary mouth
Above a forgetting chime. In the dusty
Glow of the apartment there is mirth
And waiting, flit smarts sparking
Opening scenes in the train car’s
Operations, my friends came back
To town and I was enough there to
Unremember capturing it by phone
Life as a moving picture bleeding
From the east. Upstairs an incident
Involving pills, a mirrored confession
Of delight and dignity. I practiced
Wondering if I could type on the
Machine while there was deliverable
Company, and found myself fidgeting
When questioned on patience for these
Situations; bone broths layering indigenous
Waves. There were five leaves still but the
Tea was ready and my friend had returned
From a doorknob and a hill, four days
Into the sear cleared awning it was raining
Two friends offered their umbrellas
Because I hadn’t seen the weather for days.