from Meanwhile (a Movement Missive Series)

Fairhazel Gardens,

I am under the chair. See half a monarch wing in the dustbin. Backyard vixen squalled all night to her cubs. No need to look outside, but I did. Red apple with a broken neck. Every word is an unnecessary stain. Take back your eyes. Remove an ant from your arm without snuff. I am under the phone book which is under the wheel. I’m in an earth, call-less.


Dutch Flat


This isn’t to be marked for errors. After last night, please. I think Kansas is a fresh deep misery and much more pretty than I once thought. There’s the severity, but. I enjoyed our travels. I’m buying you a book. Remember crossing Mad River? Wyoming? Nothing’s like with you.




The smallest slants keep happening today. All day. It’s the loosening of eye teeth. Tastes intrude like how the classical can weave it. The moment more real. Snap of your head when you thought you heard something move in the foyer. Here, drawing shutters, nearing midnight, simultaneously you’re there, the morning train towards sea, sitting backwards. Newsprint on your teacup.




Here I am in domestic bliss and blister. Sleep spurs tangles. I took a pair of perfectly, but they were yours. She threatened suicide the evenings I did not. It’s already inside you, and submission. Collections I hope to keep discretely. This year’s little sense. Your commentary: A twinned sigh across the airshaft. Dry crackle the blues. Soft metal. Buckled love.