The Emigrant Gap
Festooned and the sea,
as if the start of a leave
were none other than
a bone before the
shore: lilacs delivered.
(If I saw the sun I was
happy.) The bridge not
stuck so much as standing
well, where it does, what
is any of this but that, a
point for kings coming to
see what happened in the
sleeping years they were
I was gone. Fielded bottles
and still flowers, yes, the
store, yes, my discontent is
back. I say the singer has his
turn on the moon.
Big Data
Self-portrait near
morning had time
to figure the intricate
rules of the sea, why
we’re here, a negation
of stars, idea without
weather or knowing
the train will stop, send
the world. (The city has
sun on it.) On the dock
adopting the garden or
a thing like it, that summer
ending in trees or any houses
I’ve lived in, my friend
noticed the Internet. I want
the thing but not a fancy
coat disorder in the streets or
like porn I wonder if I’m
being impossible in a new
way. People have tickets
for the theater. Push the
plant into the sun.
Austerity Is Half the Euphemism for Time
Ten seas mumble the alliterative
forms of love, an office in the rain: hair,
restaurant, bar, big fish thrown back
into residency. What I have is my youth
I think to the women passing. The
season’s typical meatscape pastes itself
to the underside of a set of sectional
flowers. (Clearly I had shark by accident.)
Winter paws glass in the morning,
fifty trains, no delays reported.
There’s the mood, the offered sound
of a ladder beyond view, the visceral
charge he felt under hot stage lights. If of
fog and industry there sated none from
ringing or mermaids, my bold simulations
might have caught up with me.
[Note: “Austerity Is Half the Euphemism for Time” appears in CR 58:2 in an earlier version and under the title “Marauder.”]