(Tangential blush

:The word does not make the image and still word and image are much.

Despair of insects is lettuce turning brown,

or my submitting tongue sliding down throat,

keeping living words kept.

I hear flies coming.

In the painting, people scream. A buried explosion?

Robert used to holler, loved the hog foot, and sucked on grass.

This is my most reasonable mood: dishes are washed. You are very near

the northern horizon, very hairy with hiccups.

To be fully understood, my three tongues, I bird the mirror as a new

color and bride the sewing machine, the microwave, the particular form—

Like woman.

Not unlike—

The wedding is reduced to notification, many papers

and the fact dies when well drilling cuts open the column.

I equate this loss to the value of cherries.

This is important.