The slow no tone drones, still
where scrims of certain fall
& the passage she paints in meticulous shades of old photo books
autumn evening. Paris
in rain shine, we tussle
for facts & breathe gone adjectives, all beautiful. I could narrate a
deeper voice, oh living.
Picture to be. Picture.
& the plaster of name on mouth as though (yes love:
we love & do) even the mandates began amid the slough
& rouged pigment of certitude, where the bridges fall
at night breaking we wash, I mean wait, for a Dresden
to consume our eyes, a Dresden of goodbyes, as though
our sloth & skinless thickness might cast unequal echoes
to the headlamps' lazy spin across the brick of our fathers'
deaths, Nagasaki in the straw torch of tindery dawn, paper
for the names we had & lost in the years after desks
to creep beneath & stare at windows playing eight-bit
Nintendo versions of Nicaragua, before the wall, a need
for thirty lives so keenly achieved (up up down down
left right left right b a b a select start) in our Konami-
coded play-act of the world where history happens.
Brighten: the day's slope we call lingered.
& so? A name an hour us strict in echo.
Our grids make same in the colorform talk
Toward dark enough to see stars. Reed bars
At creek's end shape cell windows of morning
Of morning's wend the towers chirp uncertain
Uncertain where the light in falling eyes.
Back to Blackbox