from August

Slept in cars
sheave of hair shook
in rain  California
a fire my mind
entirelya house of cinder in
a house of cinder
iterable rows, months
mast in the anywhere
Shoulder me there

for A.

Hole as
expansion of breath of
leaven as knife
to the dough and
gone the
book store neighborhood gone to diy bake shop and
those quote rough streets clerk
says past 8th
lights sudden coming on

The Blackout

Soon today will be absorbed into all of those other days. And these words into oblivion.

No Funeral

You mourn the girl I was / as if I killed her, / as if I left her / in a field somewhere, / shipwrecked in the dry grass –