Rising yellow blue
hardly light
off your body

you coast into

seconds you know are maybe

your first 

your arms 
your feet 

designs yawing over the side

In the back of the house 
yesternight still occupies

objects are yet to appear 

solid form

tranquility

a vase, air
it holds which 
the zz plant
breathes

so close to remembrance
how it will once be

again, then

falling is arriving by chance

and voices earn 
your image, sound and name
their emotive meaning

no sound, then sound

I don’t know

only know by

A thin cut of time
is what we pass through

At some point you are not yourself

At some point 
things don’t have to be

***

Meridian 2

Window light
              one sits in
to graze upon
                 “the general specifics”:

an assembly of things
which appear
               before you

can say

                                 I
                                                 the aforementioned “one”
                            am not that
                                                       am, in reality
                                    half woman half
                                                cow

It is a choice, then:
                  the second verb
in lieu of
        “gaze”
you have chosen
                          to follow, says
in bad weather we come
                                indoors
                   preferring in place of grass
                                               a book

Three pages
            before you remember
you’ve read them
             —this— before
(In another
          you know the end)

                   Here the wind throws its tantrum


wants in
         upon the house
                       its clanking pipes
while music below
                         travels

You do not know
                   if it was you
                              but something listening
                in place of you



                That is the role
                             of music to
                  move, ascend
                            even via
                                   escape

***

Then What

Something to take over when this thought has bloomed and died
by the window it imagines when the world cannot be entered.
Perhaps the near-0 light I am afraid to taint, perhaps wind,
as visceral as an elephant giving birth, when she disregards our fears. 
One could say there is a sound of everything going wrong, minus
how we tell it. One could say there is a sound of the quick, contemporary
sexual edge of the world which disappears instantly but feels like an extended suffering
of life as it occurs. One could say that that is the sound of words 
which are not words, which have forgotten the milk of words
and echo in a sourceless, dubbed cut. But take for instance a case
of your own belongings: haven’t you had that 
but not worn it? Doesn’t that have a color?
I was thinking of thoughts, not exactly thinking thoughts,
but your face was in the way, the way hair is in your face when I want to kiss it.
Suddenly a part is demanding enough to surpass then recede the rest,
as if the last few hours were a furtive attempt to prepare
for the didactic lack of control which is to tell me something
of what I am not. Nothing travels but energy keeps it illusion-like,
Sky and earth in race with one another, toward the offing
as we cry. How this affects me is as moving as sleek metal
with a steady drip of water. A symphonic brass body, something
to do with an egret’s neck, reflecting the various angles at which 
our manufactured beach can surround us and become truth.
A drop of paper trash being lifted in a flurry, foot falling down sand and 
consciousness falling long-side first to the ground. All this 
as I stare into space, blocking out a late-winter play
where there are no actors or parties, but only recognitions of branch, house
sky and wire. Truly speaking my sight does not go far: the sky ends it all
the first spring of night takes over, and the room and my face
begin to reappear.