disassemble the dead-end [ReRites, August 2017]

unthinkable metaphor we made one phrase uneasily follow the wires of this true mystery disassemble the dead-end Say I owned, a tongue Diesel and money, initials, and the clinics of flowers, A lying fatality, the moon, friends, loneliness. Unhappy, began to eat. I was a house of anguish Foreclosed in my act. All day I appealed. In Machines Schemas move from an old sack. A blob, hush-throated nimble, elongated, quick as a sparrow on a ledge, grows a kind of killing which longs to live in flesh. I’ll be at the window of my tongue and proud of my hunger, waiting for two-hour walls of veined Here, a morning broken, insured and cold as sand, impossibility, cancelled. All That Phantom Shuddering The last care he tore from bright concrete around my legs, brushed the overhanging desiccated skies until the hunger of horses is his. Bent at last. So on the bursting knots of the dead, squalled out, thieving beetles, bees, indolence platters, and hounds dig their mouths into the hollow basket