Approaching a certain service void

To call on
your doubling
“from the rag bin”
to have only voice
to let nothing be title or description
to call on lineages of textural attention
to put tangential faith in story
to allow the slippage of these trees
to let the gesture close

Metaxu

As the leg opening of the garment
kindred to the muddied foot

the goal

is never to make the posture fluent
nor efficient in the sidestep

my mouth is held briefly open
by the illusion of the moon

I confess I haven’t spoken to you about it
shortening possibility of changing

things that are patterns

your placing the board over the fault in the path
and so placing having given it up

the ordinary splits
now, just after, just before

the earth smells of apple just past
falling being simply that which we do not claim

hair parted, having chosen
my own hands for the parting

rarely being the thing itself in scent and slip
and specific and singular composition

Potential

Discard, in the usual way
roadside, half-apparent

Especial darkness
especial twilight

What I worry is that I brought you there
both of us not knowing

It was dark and it was raining
that’s reason

Nothing more than morning,
nothing more than the other side of
the curve, the next morning