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.