B-3

What to do with a series of love theories?
Or with the unburied profiles of the finite
dead?

Open-eyed
I race restfully, considerate of
too many decades, of their mind-clatter,
searching such patter
for their stranger presence,

their potent berths, a flower and series
—chord progressions emitted

his beige gas-lit harmonium
in type,
escaping air,
and never swaying foolishly
along
to a jump-blues song’s completion.

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