the city drains into the sea / and renders us broke / mold smell of apartment looking / down at the trees / and anxiety’s abstracted threads / unspooling into the day that rises / like wheat loaf into the slicer / or looking at the sky perhaps / like rye as dogs come running / through the sloshed strut / of pigeons and staccato rap / torques the road where mother’s eyes / ricochet like angry bees / along the grid of asbestos / dope and chrome.

piles of clothes and bruised fruit on the table. the smell of microwaved fish. holes in duffel bags where the meager assets drop. at the feet of painted metal arrows pointing at the harbor bluff. and rich men’s tombs of granite and weeds just beyond. the torches of stars over smokestacks as insects hum. ominous and sweet. like words recited from an ancient parchment. in the hand of a tyrant’s scribe. in gold leaf and indigo. the daubed blood of rodent lice. flecked in the high key of the sirens. on the failed shores of mythical lands.

i ditched the bankrupt gods / for oats on my tongue / in the absence of a steady hand / the propaganda crooned with the tone / just right through the whisper / of the anonymous land / the dark throat of the past’s dumpster / like a doorway in the sun reeking / of grease and beer i claim no plot / but experience the infinite falling through space / the ancient rocks might feel / curled into prehistory’s ball / and hardened before our species arrived / to pick the place clean.

we counted eleven spiders in the kitchen. damaged by the rains. it will take time to cross the flooded river. pursing its lips at our feet. which is the future we want to take solace in. and not have to regret our rags. but yesterday’s stains wash into last year’s. and a spider in the picture frame window sucks the essence of the dragonfly. it won’t take too long. when she finally gets her mouth to work the words. the supplicant asks, what is time? the monk says, it’s nothing.