Generation / Generation / Generation of Windows
In a space less like a box than we are typically familiar with, someone spoke of that point at which things will simply always crumble. I began to think about how much I’ve thought about an old friend, her poems, her ability to pull from the suggestions I made for myself and tailor them to the mold of her southern ethereality; the unending floor of just damp grass that I can’t help but picture with her name, and of course, yes, the bathtub porcelain, the iron claws.
I have a favorite fleece jacket. It is beige-ish and very warm. There are three pockets and the inside is somewhat meshy. In the pocket that lies against my ribcage, I keep my chapstick. I wear this jacket when I walk through the weather to the cafeteria where I drink cranberry/orange juice and lean back slightly in my chair.
To where my family went. You could say, one more time, that this is almost like dancing. The issue is the way in which we can’t stop thinking about ice. Men surrounding a type of heightened orifice, tribally; tape sounds: that wind and tear I knew so well. What hasn’t been connection? The lawn, swallowing upward and back.
That slit between wood,
it should never have been.
and also: clothed nozzle.
Rag bucket, shelved.
That scrawling along
the polar graph lines.
While walking to the spot where I diagram the rudiments of what fills me, I passed a certain vine-crawling, stacked benches. There is life between the beds in my home.
Should all days stop feeling like days, the water styling the bombing as license; or else, if the salted avocados were rapture, would mornings become more subtle? I mean to ask about that itchy sort of dissipation; think of a storm, a storm so distant as to be unheard and unseen, a storm of ferocious intensity, though, nevertheless. Now: wherever that storm is, nothing is tied down, and the buildings are without foundation.
That understatement could be the congratulatory shift in the trees. All of it on one hand, or a little bit on both.