She smells like Charlotte Bronte. I live on
coffee and sleep. The police attend in
charitable droves, intent on classifying
our unhived minds. The past in sheer service
alludes to the first clue that is: out my window
stand three identical men in a row,
facing right they descend, fully straight,
slightly bent at the waist and
are mid-diving into a pool. When the sun
illumines the other man, I awaken. Tissue
web vision. Meeting his sister, I mention
none of this. She comes toward
me, apart. We are three feet together,
standing illustrations. My content grows
more than an extension of contentment.
I hereby walk this beat
to serve you. To rile you. I play the divine
servitude. Face as a permanent tattoo.
I would have liked to see you
in your mistakes, full of grace and smile.

I have been myself a thousand times,
stuttering silence at the duet my atoms
send through the pistol eyelets I bear.
I am not mathematics applied to rock,
a church closing my worst vision against
bullets that precede, no more than
division of space into matter. Pushing
separate seconds: there was an essence
in this house but now it’s only house we’re in.
I believe entering as belief. We went for a drink
at Bar bar, the only location not at home
and attended. Some kind of variety theater
or charcoal etching, propped upon our beer stools,
never thinking backward on the copper miners
bleeding blue sweat and death for the poison
inside. This push toward grammar beckons.