drafts/worksheets[unfinished

[title]

Shadows are more indigenous to summer

Than other days; in sunless winter they may

Appear as friends from a former season,

Companions for an endless cold—because

You need a certain percentage of Bishop

Berkeleys if life is to pass, the armies rise,

The coffee boil.  But can this concensus

Include those in transit, at the bus stop

Patting their pockets automatically since

Statistics decide we don't all die at once,

And bandaids help with that.  Also the fact

We lack wings and therefore can linger in

Doorways comfortably, coming and going

Provides us such opportunity to meet and

Form treaties to support portraits of each

Other, adamant and guilty in their narrow

Frames.  The commute schedule timetable

Confuses every route with eternities as

(Cough venues, bruises perhaps, or sketched

Leisures of transition sidelining the road)

Times fall and evening secures an after-lag

Of it when mermaids keep their stomach

Pumps handy, mythical beings being always

In danger of being poisoned by the day

To day readiness when a window still holds

The unseen edge of its imminence over all:

So tense when candles on a windowsill

Indicate domesticity's anarchy, while

The frontbell is ringing a little something,

Whose wording has not come down to us,

We call it confluence or Cincinnati, some

Home at random under the habit of a snowpeak,

Pure alp up which the gaze drowns all hands lost,

August it wells with grass, with settlements.

 [title?]

Shadows are more indigenous to summer

Than other days; in sunless winter they may

Appear as friends from a former season,

Companions for an endless cold—because

You need a certain percentage of Bishop

Berkeleys if life is to pass, the sun rise,

The coffee boil.  But does this census

Include those in transit, at the bus stop

Patting their pockets automatically since

Statistics decide we don't all die at once,

Breastbraving uniformity for a patch/cache of

Eternities.  Simple wounds could hatch

Your winglessness.  Bruises when tiring

Times fall and evening secures an after-lag

Of it, when mermaids keep their stomach

Pumps handy, each doorway pried from

Adamant guilty portraits.  What pane bears

The unseen edge of its imminence over

Our sill's tense anarch of candles, while

The frontbell is ringing a little something,

Whose wording has not come down to us,

We call it confluence or Cincinnati, some

Home at random under the habit of a snowpeak,

Pure alp up which the gaze drowns all hands lost,

Dreadful it wells with grass, with settlements.

POEM

I tried to phone the Amnesia Hotline
But its hashtone forgot me in the rush
To publication of my hemlines which
Strayed at times to coincide with
Youth and years astride the Nazi
I married.  Hasteless my diary claims,

Facing me off against my sister half,

Its entries present me as someone who
Outspent his coins' grief on verities
Of disbelief, for less and less.  Juicetipped
Thighs, you feed them figs with the brink
Of your tongue, the streets are packed
In gutter but I am gone, gone to war
To avenge how childrens' toys are always
Poe-cast into premature funerals. 

Buried young.  Before their time.

FILM VERSION

Drifting into the blindfold's focus I find

My face entirely by tracing yours no mind.

The cyclops probe that won't take no:

So I was pretending this grief was new,

Not some old, come-apprehending love—

Nor can, I thought, the horizon be likened

To a trafficcop's palm.  Portraits of

Manny's Lacklounge, whole libraries lichened
With its plus and absence shorn-records us

While all I see myriads me.  Devoured by it

I fear this sitcom in sync with doubt may not

Know that if you took a sumac's leaves and

A sycamore's leaves and switched them around

With shears and glue, who'd notice what tree— 

Bod McDylan, kicking out his butler, maybe.

But the rest of us, living in these

Glass-bottomed attics at length-ease,

Would we dolly or is it pan, would we
Sort of fellini forward towards it, slowly.

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