people keep telling me
this is real—the wind is
at their backs—life—
mouth, eyes: wide—as if
I hadn’t heard that one

we speak of the bed—
only (a stranger’s
procession—on its
edge—its mechanics—
eternal rain shadow)
exerted when there isn’t
enough—can I adopt—
whose hands wrung
out—a rigid nod
accompanies this—

one can only stand
agog—be read—(and
whose regrets—can exist
but never
prefer to sit)
(a list of things that can’t
be said)—this is nothing
to—listen: hear and
categorize: keep. I
can’t—only understate—

that this is so is no
exception—but most people
don’t know how to—
who am I to say they
should