Ice sheets pulled over our heads. There is a people:
We, who have shoveled a great hole in the sky.
Documents strewn over the table. Come again.
Thought the water sunk into us. Porous, meaning:
The slow fade of city into morning. How you drink it
in like any other bird: First the astonish, then, the guilt
of knowing nowhere. Bending is how the sound
goes around a corner. It had properties of shadow
and a taste of iron and told me I precipitated time.
Bumped into a memory on my way to the fridge.
The enjambment of avenues and crosswalk; to
lineate the city, to make it more palatable. A wolf
set loose in this virginia. Skin would begin itching
on contact with water and then fire spread across.
A senate bored of form, organized in couplets. Why
night is a curtain strung between the ordinary. Tongues
wriggling on the ground aching to be embodied. It was
the lyric I spilled all over the table. What sung against
a hole in what home was.