The mystery is now not
what can make a person
move but what displays
among the enclosed hours
we are billing to the sky.
You say the constellation is one kind of bear
and then the bear makes a move like it’s only
so many times between where we are and what
became of the glossed ice.
It was supposed to be a future.
We pill an animus into each sewn thing.
I don’t display the frame before the picture
angles into both of us – some mist
on the camera lens – a way to daddy
the death that lacks each sleep-
walker burying or buying this exact noose –
a rupture burning.
The seal so leaping.
A bird in the handsomeness of a natural scene may be
limp and what children see when they’re brought to the future
of our bets. Our era lamping a calving sound. To want
the lexicon of absence as it stands. How you make the future
when you are branded caloric and disdainful. I disagree
with the bathroom. My numbers are trucked
into a floundering system. And I hate
and I hate elevator music. But that’s a distant
generation missed by its own flowering blue eyes,
their trod. Ding goes the always up elevator.
There is no minor restraint. There is no time
for confessed friction. Some imperfect rut this.