Having you see her often tell me, reflexive,
brazed, silver eye-teeth metier

in the land of gaslight, undoing the insoluble
avenue commemorating General

Slocum’s Disaster Centennial, posted to the
Herald, glowing twinned,

the facetop on a second track,

banded distended through a brass ear
trumpet playing,

what Billy Sue meant to mean to Bobby Jo.

Cemetery Charles

Flying in from America, cruder contours’
rotted contents, rooting jokes, sequencing

hoax to puzzle,

dimmer, the least comprehending body.

Chief Librarian of Oswiecim—What do you
call…how does a…how many will it take…

damned (redbelly) punch.

Moroccan salt-curl, taffy twisters, pealing
bells, early approval

and hormonal cataloging
with sex, with sound. Clicking off,

clicked off, the

stern gang, alienated, considering the
classified patience

of East Amwell

desires a nightless sleep
at home-tables, a radiating thought:

over-turning skulls by

Knut’s pale harbor companion,
hand-ling reported the fact of his


peaked isolation
of her headscarves’ frames.

Stairwell Number

A large, red-grey twist
of paper topics

wasted in liquid sweat,
chimney, smoke, and folktales

—lead, miniature, unthinking
filling a pocket false,

adjudicating a length of
denim dungarees.

The form taken,
set atop a form ungiven,

as charcoal swipes down
hard, revealing this

commitment, dark below
a narrowing slate,

aboard the hospital
corridor’s sloop,

worthy, yet by an
abstruse series

of monographs–aborted,

a season of line at my
index fingertip moves

fallen in faith,

imagining song,
properties all too

tenuous for the
bearing of our

mournful blessing.