M dash X The room is a specter seen during total eclipse of suns. Events rain down as sand, history does not seem to hurry. A mathematic calm controls the architecture which holds a sword, not a placard for non-smokers And a man sweats blood to put through a railway, an ice-cake. The waves are a forest in the stratosphere, the color of the sky frozen in an ice-cake or a body. The cinema is isolated in the stream, slow farmers and ranchers crowd the offices. Children are hidden, lying in blue lakes of acid, light pouring down cleaving them away. A child of my age, a mere infant, thirty-five Knew the coal was stolen in the sunlight, the gate cut by shadow. The wharves are full of broken ships, hardly a home without a loss. We have not always known this division when the sense is entirely destroyed. Small windows open and shut in a photograph of the earth, not image instruments of change Those it is cunning enough to preserve hallucinate a candle. You take a well-earned vacation to islands hidden in blood and money. The retina itself seeks equilibrium, go with the ghost’s arm of a dead friend. Girls in the temple are prinked by the chokecherry tree In their minds are stink and corruption, please may I go back there? My last letters to you finally congeal into an impenetrable substance, an alphabet. The truth of the answer is false to preserve the country as a whole but I refuse. Once I saw something like you with flies, habits of freedom now formed of holes. The poison for my inheritance, a smallish galaxy for an alcove. Principles, old shoes, profit, the remains of a gigantic man, pompons, petiole, mouth, thumb of time. It is all over before it was over a year ago on her birthday Lifted like a temporality after twenty years of struggle hallucinating nature and paradise. The tendency of the legal profession to side with authority, carbuncular smiling system of politics at full speed. The lords lay an embargo, the cream to go into their salaries. The poor pull down hard on their skulls with a bird’s-eye view of the world praying to the lords like good citizens then going back to commercials. What is burning and breaking into darkness, dig it upright as posts and fragments When morning lights up the shelves and battalions There are no righteous wars in the spring and autumn. The rest is explodable, lie down in this place to sleep. Workers paid in full have a run for their money until they are at the ends of their tether. The illogical is always logical to rob as apportioned lot Spokes of smoke arise from recondite recesses, the tail of a tiger tearing to arrive. Sleep with a long dry harsh call above the fruited plain. Brag of faith, this is not the philosophy of one individual. His statesmanship is incompatible with real independence. The day she died was my birthday, I must go now to her grave, bang into flowers and candy. Here are your dead, leaving art to make the most of death in a monument Skillfully inhabiting everything which we really are. The words I mourn are and are not your own, thus one modernizes his lute. Damn it wage labor, we who sleep under you afraid to hear our own voices. Against the truth, unity, rising and falling then frozen in circulation The land stands deserted, all waste and drifting vessels. The will to mourn is not appropriated, a filiality that binds things together. Ever-shifting change, movement of bodies, dialect of dust Out of the fire and out of the mouth on this plain of sweet speech. Our apartment is thus favored by the spoken, a bird caught in a harpsichord negatively intensifying the negative. Not all dreams should be spoken, sweetheart, the seclusion found there, the humid mirror. Greetings, my voice echoes yours.