They—the all-closed—breaking
out from flogged off memory,
beneath forgetting skies,
glistening, radio-free, sounding
out the century, when we
served as two, and then as one,
and then as other than
we could find
to offer to ourselves,
and then in another,
for both, now gone,
so I write in free measure
by liquefied flight from impunity’s liberties.

And So

And so the God
of Groucho
dances zig-zags
in tails
and so the God
of Chico
chances monies
on ponies
and so the God
of Harpo

And so the God
of Lemon Jefferson
his matchbox,
and so the God
of H. Ledbetter
and so the God
of Son House—
in your face

And so the God of Abraham
kissed Rachel. And so the God
of Isaac raised his voice.
And so the God
of Jacob


I quit, the early
afternoon, inside.

When image’s understood,
I can’t quietly say.

Upper legs’ muscles
may have left something—
is someone
certain of that?

A (p)articulated you, lifted,
sunflower sundress
by your loose screendoor,
it’s 1991.

Upstate generic fields yield
a rest: semi-present column
of gray, free in the dark
movements, colluding;

now promised—my Pentateuch,
her lunacy, his arrest.

Petitioned. Their ‘oblivious’,
its avalanche, it’s inevitable.

Licorice leaves minute
our daily lunchtime rains.

Intruding in the quiet, in the
afternoon, poetic and quick.