get more traction in the virtual community.

The intensity of my dream made me unclean until evening.

Walking unsteadily on the ice at night outside the beer parlour

we might, like Bothelm of Hexham, fracture an arm;

but whereas by a splinter of Oswald’s cross

was he made whole, we may wake more broken, more wrong,

to another in a series of excuses: My office prevents me

from being with you at this time. Whenever I take an Aleve,

Terry, I’ll think of you. Anonymous thanks us for efforts

compelling her husband — who, though a literary scholar,

is careless with the grammar of eternal salvation —

to sever his link with the other woman,

casting that particular mountain into the sea, etc.

and vouches for the Prayer and Fasting CD, the free relic

with online purchase. One sends a barbarian

to fight a barbarian, in the Roman wisdom.

Spurned by Honorius in a letter suggesting they defend

themselves, in misery the British turned on each other, retreated

to the old hill forts. Trouble, distress, and sorrow ride before

a miracle. After a miracle, well, you know.

There’s limited fortune in the world, it seems,

or a distribution problem. But I go to sleep trusting

my damaged face will be restored as a sign

of love. And extend also my intercessions for Helen,

alone since her Westie, old and full of days, “companion

of companions, friend of friends,” went the way of his fathers.

CRAIL SPRING

Surprised on returning to find the flat

flooded with light. Merciless,

evaporative, even when overcast, and

as the solstice neared, sanctimonious

in its imperative to productivity.

An expert with his pen light wondering

how you let it get this bad. That tone.

We were out all day in the clarity

of errors multiplied

into reality. Excess weight disclosed

by the indignity of seasonal clothes

and suspicious the promise

of those first fine days wouldn’t be

borne out. Children wept with exhaustion

in the playground past 11,

birds prodded awake at 3. So when the haar

sailed in, flags flying, party in a bag,

and took over the streets, we rejoiced

to see our choices diminish along

with the outlines of what they’d wrought.

Otherwise, not a fucking thing.

What could we do but make a weekend of it?

THE SHARING ECONOMY

This performance of “I Want My Fucking Money”

broadcast live from the street will conclude

when the last human being on earth

has perished.

The Freshly Renovated Bachelor Suite

has its ear to the ground, has the ear of the Paying Guest

who’s found a bed among the household’s automatic functions,

in its grotto of learning experiences (those decor objects from HomeSense’s

Blunt Force Trauma Collection), above which the Victorian Charmer charms

in its super-convenient location, and

the Superhosts walk overland.

A pilot light flickers like an awareness of self.

Chaos whispers through the fittings, patterns in the textiles

repeat, pipes sing, the weeping tile: between sound and silence