a finished gift, more an organ embarassed
to have been, a seeing which draws color
to itself looking less murderous, more opaque
bruise-purple weather to me, seeping
consistent and banal through all diaries
when mornings warp awfully, running water etching
new preludes for a decade which is running
its fingers between my legs despite protest
giving mercy its name, and moving through
radio darkness gritting dirt into dark skins
hovering above that clay, grounding toothless hat-dippers
who forget the grinding of their teeth
when footsteps fall away from paged-novel pulses
and rush plagues, waking, into reclaimed water, fingering
mildew over three stacked nickels, dousing names
that exhibit their bodies in saltwater, schools of public transit
arranging in old teams; they drink the smoke of my tobacco
packed in highways and reclaiming old loyalties, harvested
like laundry stains, extending bloodless legs in broadcast
i change my position
*This is an impenetrable poem which summons up an impenetrable landscape in order to avoid actually explaining how the notion of going home is always the death of ambition
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