High Mist Toward Noon

Instituted at the desk but not yet overcome
by the banality at the end of imagination, you ask
the page: will all tongues
run dry? You’re invested personally.

A light so trumpetlike in its tone knuckles the breeze,
              but it’s a blue world no matter how brassed. Whole books
              are left undigested, while the telephone maintains its place
              as the object of every preposition.

The down on an arm can, however, on occasion, stand on end,
as if your skin sensed an open field behind the bursting silence.
There the wild globe perspires in its desire to overcome the limits
of your landscape, like something endangered and alive slinking
away from the tiled agenda of a roadside restroom. Your eye
now unimpressed by donuts and funnel cakes finds a stellar
sequence of moons rising through the pines above a morning.

When back in your office you see a kid grate his teeth against
a sentence hollowing through the static of the intercom, you inform
the clerk in a short-sleeve shirt that the time has come:
you must rearrange your life. You command him to cuff you and 
in a set of disposable restraints, you become a saint, arrested and 
arresting. Your eyes full of suffering turn to the ceiling tiles, through
which your gaze pierces to a beyond of copper wires
in vinyl casings—yellow, green, and blue—linking you to every terrestrial
being above and below your floor,

                an elevator of voices,

                                                an orphic infinity.

A Fold of Sun

We decided I
should go alone
on foot. I   
would find
him in
the pharmacy. If      
he said ‘In
the head of
God all propositions     
have existed     
always,’ we would make     
the exchange.
He was standing     
in front of the      
calamine lotion.
He spoke to the
air. I slipped   
the envelope into

his pocket and    
bought a topical      
analgesic to

avoid suspicion.       
When I left, I            
had a face     

again, could open
an account, drink          
coffee in the

sun. On the street two     
women talked      
of money. I paid them

no mind. I     
could now always       
walk with my light

to the front.  

For the Republic

The way I’m strapped into myself
I can’t escape. Wake up and be a better person! Clip your toenails,
and by sun-rise make sure
                        you’re sitting at the table reading Arendt.

With a little focus
I could become
everything I ever wished
to be: level-headed and
            a real (wo)man of conviction. But no, at night,
I’m like an old towel on the line, tossing and
turning in the wind of the dear leader’s
words. What does
                                      it matter, if I grind
                         my teeth for the old ladies of
                         Puerto Rico? Or take a knee
                         in the front yard every time I hear
                         the national anthem
                         in my head? The neighbor just thinks
                         I’m weeding and waves.

Of Liberation

You arrive in a sentence
where you would like
to stay, but you are told

to move on to another,
so you do and wish only
this time to keep to imaginary

places. You are not
given Zanzibar or Timbuktu
but Paducah were two

soldiers compare figures on
a motel balcony. You
note the exits and a sign

announcing no free breakfast.
One says, “You look good, man,”
to the other, who nods. Though

you had always understood
figures differently, you
respect their loyalty

to a cause impossible
to understand. “I've been
through two surgeries and

still smell as fresh as
a piano,” the admired one
says. The moon is quartered,

and the air is mild. You
sleep in a rented bed
overlooking asphalt. Through

the vents your German
professor repeats, "Ich komme
aus Dodge. Woher kommst Du?”

over and over until your
True Being separates
from a cough that will not

go away. The professor in
the morning seeks out your eye
as he slips out the door,

“To be in a sentence,”
he asserts, “is by
nature to be passing through."