From the Person Lodged Within

Dear Foundational Viaducts,

What do you look like in small pieces
and how close can I get before I taste
your chalky soot on my breath? Disbelief
manages to settle here though nothing
is mandated. I have mastered this hierarchy,
this large white space that greets each
evening and looks down upon me, despite
inward insecurities. I long to practice
granulated motions, powdered arches
brushed softly together, gathered
with certain tenderness and engineered
by the presence of my fist and the way
it meets the ground. You provide
too many routes, unmarked and only known
by those whose feet shuffle one after
the other. I have lain in your framework
and made guesses at what lies beyond,
determined to understand what accounts
for the quiet way you allow me to remain.

Today

Opposed to the middle, land humming
like hamlets, deplorable vacancies and pastures
Settling words, often enticing,
every line eventually leads straight.
Inspiration located outside in unreachable realms,
the insipid caw of something much older
Making sense of impenetrable episodes that are shortened and condensed:
My movie for you where I wave from a distance but keep moving ahead.
No one really sees attrition, plant-life, passing paddocks
and the morning hand which turns rectangular dimensions;
the way we greet what only passes.
The black length I sit behind,
equipped songbirds on the ledge,
nothing is bigger than this moment
in its fatigue like crescent moons, allowing shadows
as its dragged across the nylon, the fists
of endtime and narrow sounds. I am always listening.

Today

Reason intervenes and betrays no one
as its impetus goes unquestioned,
collecting things that get carried
and make us full of wrath,
like tangible windows, windexed and pondered.
Outside there are voices that do not come from within
Manners approach lithely,
wrestling the plaster that falls from above,
what is obscured in habit:
a large padded body that harms in turn

Today

The prospect having arrived at the place,
having been asked to be here.
What great play do we submit?
A rummage, ceaseless hand wringing.

Today

Crest-ridden or disembodied,
nuanced figments belabor the hard surface.
Disbelief, instance, then predicament,
the railroad and you fixing the point
until we are certain there is nothing left that waits.
We ask questions, uncertain how to keep our eyes open.
Our engaged retinas pass forward in repetitive language.
Remember how this story repeats
and stands awaiting reflection.