More on: Poetry

To think of you
is to have the sense that I will never be seen
by anyone who has language
again.

To withdraw like a fly or amuse oneself / like a submarine in a fjord misnamed a canal.

Light a candle. Open a door
Too small to walk through.

We were our ugliest at that point,

Pale and flaccid under greasy coats.

Out in the rapids guys in waders brace themselves stiffly all business.

I think I knew Schmidt. He preceded me
In his fascination with mathematics and poetry
And his weakness of imagination, but that’s all I can tell you.

Naturalism was always the goal: as philosophy,

They’re a version of reality vs. appearance,
Of what consoles you vs. what you believe is true.

sacrament of

bleached exteriors of jars, boxes,
and cans, of strip-and-shower

My sanctuary from the sanctuary
was a dim Sunday school room.