The Appling Flush

Not letting go
but embracing
and then putting
down to sleep
and keeping
sleep awake behind
the skin lifted
to a look
of my own
long worked-at
stride
conceiving
and apprehending
a grand mirage
the image
of oppor-
tunity a memory
of how it must
have been
in home
and house

of a new acquaintance with her mother
if not animals but surely there was

a garden
and room enough
to hear
I slept
in the attic
seeing The Indian
in the Cupboard
and even at that
graduated
age I thought
myself to
have illegally
attained a modicum of

interiority albeit the amorphous

heft left
and felt
confounded
under

fizzled moppings
of soft brown stairs

a beardless visage
plain or vacant with no

thought sounding unprofound

I Don’t Call It Anything

Beyond this melting point
an allusive pall

of evasive concatenations
the propelling tyrannical

rhythms betwixt foreboding
and botanical schisms

a culminating to what—
an era-inspecific

terminus engorged
on those enfeebled

A hummed about science
or a license for this

used demotic opacity’s
standard predation?

A Familiar Volume

The messages of
genocide

fastened of hands–
this time, turning a way

not-never
to forgive:

a plan to plan to say

of new
commiserating

nights and nights over
remains;

the stolen, not located.