Wednesday, January 30, 2013

On Being Numerous

Wouldn't say why
over iris, speckled grouse,
a forthcoming
of units, emergent on fidelity.

The field is no longer open:
our good is no good no more.

Speak with open mouth & hands
on the varieties of grace
or green grass waving its "hello"
at the lakes, still frozen, churning.

The mouth is a wry line straight:
my timeline's broken open.
I keep pulling the horizon
closer: I many need to call my broker.

Fallow lines, a systemic corrugation
at work with all these white people.

Did it always work like this?
Has it always felt like this.
A closed system is not closed:
it's just avoiding the hassle.

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