To this day, my heart remains
a burglar on window sills
broken and entered in order
to investigate the cloths
of others, to examine
their exceptional pieces.

I remember that rush
outside in the garden
between their gates and doors
it is coming up, it is frozen
over poppies, under mops
that seeing is believing,
we have this, we own these.

"Silk from a Sow's Ear," he said

the winterest person had the sun shined
and he missed me still, not dead, not alive
stood there not knowing which hand to place
in which pocket, which grapeseed shadow
to hold onto, '07 was a very long year
for us all and then there was '08. What's
one or two more we asked, unsuspecting.
By now we get it is clearly not going to end
this dismal class of people we'd become
could not accept or give, apologies,
he said what do you know!
A war all about her! Had I not warned them?
What would suffice then?  A bed of roses?

My head?

.

movie

this here bottled art, a Parisian scene
stealer, his genius a load of books
upon the shelves his wife and child
air out differance as all materialists
in chunk refractions,  split seconds
aped out into a lens scooped up
indemnified as in underwritten
as in postulated as in requited
as in terminal as in him, her, it

The False Conclusion

Death is probably a pronoun
the width of one breath, ever tall,
no resting place is deep enough
to capture body and angel inside.
We of the managerial class
empty our pockets and clasp
hands over our mouths gaped
 wide in a stupid kind of shock.
Who needs to know this
except the survivors,
the ones the earth might keep
or place in her old trust?
It is a mystery, a blank wall
no one climbs anymore
for fear it might just end
as a type of relapse
with acute tendencies.