Cento from The Concher #2

We are all upstream, relics of our counsel.,
the horizon melodramatically

fumbling through the dust-grounds
full of cobs. We keep wedding dresses out,

claw-footed, hand-held, the heart-like
moon cantos awash with

more, you know, fucking than
a field shot-up with poppies.

Like a kerchief full of ether when the phone rings
all of our chests outside today heaving the beautiful everyone

darkly away -- O bewailing & pitted America -- staring
made a hole I can see through.

Unsubdued as the season itself,
this house, a dark swallow

unmoved, turned to your supple lips.
Each blue self not quite

enough to measure their height in my teeth.
They weren't always. All the places

not present here,
where the strongman hits the bell again & the sky opens;

all the horizon in handcuffs of color, & the morning
light soaked up by mindfulness.

Say & say what is before us.
Even with me holding the door shut, I'm awake

for foul & fair, against the lichen-covered knolls.
They dance so hard the trees fall down inside them.

You refused to fall with them. Monitors
with no shade. Yellow tattered palm fronds.

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