creeping through the scurvy grass, going by smell

Paul, I literally see through you

but you don’t frighten me anymore, for I have looked into myself

the May is there

idling at the curb in a cloud of exhaust

radio on

its doors all dented

Its paved road, which has all the appearance . . .

Its paved road, which has all the appearance

of a processional way, must have led

from somewhere, to somewhere

you may think you want to disperse the intermediaries

between your mind and the true mystery

but believe me

you don’t

the solitude

there are no two ways about it

you can live here but don’t expect it to entertain you

like a can on a fence it will set you up

test on you its experimental drugs

dress you in its homemade clothes

hunger breaking you in two to make you last

things maintain their professional secrecy

and I look down the length of the great indifference as though it were a train

I want to see the end of

it does not end

the silence in this way like noise

as dust and ash are noise

nutrients of meaning and communication used up

one’s self is not a well from which to draw endlessly

if you leave the tap open while brushing your teeth

so says the wisdom of the Proverbs

one day you will want that water back

when you find the place you’re in

no longer supports life

Having once dwelt at Caiplie, “place of horses” . . .

Having once dwelt at Caiplie, “place of horses,”

known locally as the Coves

yet, with the fuzzy logic of its mobile infirmary

the haar lays a cool cloth upon my brow

May sent into the hall, where it walks up and down

rolling in its mouth the name my parents gave me

visual losses propagate in supersaturated air

what I can’t see, I can’t see myself in

I don’t mind it

some losses bring peace

though others remain audible to the mind’s ear

roaring around their tracks on distant raceways

in this radiant simultaneous tense

buoyant mingling of the elements

the nearby newly astonishes

blooms practically sing to the eye

I’m sorry, I can’t get over it

groundleaves, grassblades, individuals in groups

communicating through variations in their common forms

I would like to receive the world as equally

tear down the curtains and bring to light the dust

mistaken for emanations of the spirit

In a purposeful adoption of an ancient burial site . . .

In a purposeful adoption of an ancient burial site,

deliberate burning of the ground,

a shroud came to be charred,

and thus preserved

Paul, where have you gone?

only I, it seems, am exactly as I appear

a living argument against this sort of life

but I’m afraid I’m not good

for anything else now

feasting on simple sugars of my indecision

eroding, like the cave

it can’t stop thinking