the spacing the days take, i’d take pictures and post some semblance how
the pacing the day stake, to set wood into the chest
back in slats, the way of holding a treasure: one heart gold, the next leaden, the fourth a mirror of questions
it is raining or about to rain.
the green shutters eye their closed window.
in another hour the churches will shake off mounds of pigeon.
in the museum the art work strikes
a comatose crowd of foreigners sets about boarding a bus–lines of luggage hunched on the sidewalk
I am hopeful
minus signs and waving
do not count your young animals
as the start of monstering
the plate like faces sneer
on screen. it is hot here
and sleep come down premium
or siphoned off the cloudbanks
please lose your hands after
your curses, children
of the incessant complaint
there is no hearing foreign ear
or skinfold rimmed with salt
to hide inside, only the pigeonclap
and walking, the tourist trap
and bathroom stall poetry:
suck socal’s cook
we’re all americani
good job jeter
bosox best twin
cities for the issue
of a tissue.
I’ll sweat in peaces, pacing these
streets and think of ancient
cadences–or at least old photographs
and how wrong it was to ever be young.