The ones waiting for the water to go away from the boat, oh yeah

The ones I am knowing,
the ones asleep in my knowledge of them,
that sleep in the dunes, on their backs,
against an agressive coastline,
the born ones that were not to be
in the door of my life, the ones in plaid shirts,
shirts with snaps, the ones picking through
bins, the ones I wear clothes to be,
would I slip underneath their clothes,
becoming in parts, my friends, on the surface of their mouths,
ye readers at the table, I am getting sick to know you,
know harder and more securely, to know the mechanism
of the night against which you are pedalling.
God that I would accidently leave my bags in the car.

_____ is the field, plural white
and gold sky sky



Hi mouse.

I don't deny you, nor do you fit into my thinking about things right now. This is the real world. Your name was Tenney. I did not tend to you as I should have. It was night and I threw you into the garbage behind my house. I know I should have buried you. In a basket adorned with bread and flowers, then raised you and laid your white body down. It is confusing. My friends rarely visit anymore. My remembering sees you and your little white body. I think of you as some sort of facet of my life, a doornob or a little white vase holding the flowers of your death. It is dark at night and things move around me.