Steady now, a sense is pealing out the surface areas.
Observe here the fit expressions, as germane as botanic.
Here a faith in images still, and moving, you observe nothing quite
proves prosody but people feel rhythm in their bodies.
The body is pronounced bawdy.
And here a faith in materials I too cagily profess.
And then ‘the sense / faints.’
Steadily you discover exteriors. Fold them.
Continual and cheapened light of the electric kind suffuses most
areas in which you remain.
In some sense you are reporting on a country.
What do you observe?
You observe observation, its obstacles.
Forms of envy.
Narrative growing out the landscape constrainedly.
A seasonal negation inducing absence.
A relation blooms in this landscape full of abuses.
The people aren’t errant, they’re erratic.
Terror takes them.
The air is filled with amazing becomings, Marquezian butterflies.
This is not a truth but a way, a movement—simply—moving futures
From Emporium (Nightboat Books, 2020). This poem originally appeared in the Boston Review. Used with the permission of Nightboat Books and the author.