The girl goes into the tree, the car goes into the head | We’ll drink until we forget, memories are not like that, anyway

The wires vanish into the distance, and the distance | vanishes into the girl || Loving the acoustic of a seashore, what the waves | do with sound, that great | plain of moving emptiness | save maybe for a boat or gulls

The car drives off, the distance moves with it | We stay behind, watching | We have our own distance, we put it | in the house, the house puts forth | roots, the roots | are spliced with silver || We’ll make love again, build a hole in the ordinary, edge it with pleasure, line it with repletion, drop out for a while | snooze through the hollows of Sunday afternoons | We’ll try to store our hearts, dreams are a little like that

How beautiful the relation of an object to its limits, the cat’s | lick of space, the dainty | tremble of our eyelashes as we | look away, I remember | the rain in the morning before getting up, our bed | an Arabian carpet crashed, but | no one was hurt, we all | emerged alive and the wreckage | merely took on a new | formation || “Missing you always” on a postcard with horses, a postcard | with rooves

Spring drips in great drops | swells the heads of flowers, the girl | feels the ghosts on her skin all | start to shift at once, their kisses | form a crowd like rain, I remember | the rain in the morning || Clouds scudding over the beach house and the shore, words are something like that (and the sky is?)

The car goes into the mist, the mist | falls out of your screen | the girl | picks a jet up from the water | she asks | the world to open its flower for her and the world | obliges | almost entirely, she is | young and the | days haven’t yet all | packed to go | She can hear | the voices so clearly | they bring blackcurrants and daydreams the size of summer, her head | tilted and the clouds | mimic Iberia

The gulls | go into the roots and the sun | ignites the moon, of course, that pale | mirror for a hidden star, go back | towards the kindest start, seeing | by lost light | how the loss was made and how it | led to a | different evening

The train arrives at the station, the girl | lugs her cases | She brings | her heart to the streets, and the old city | finds itself sparking its statues | into blossom again, their eyes | freshen and their purpose | is renewed, as she steps into the | muggy haze at noon | the fumes from the ocean of traffic | go into her notebook, she tells the crumbling monuments | to Look sharp! | and the sound of the crowd’s footsteps and the multitude | of voices and motives | to her is the evidence | of the most tremendous fermentation

The woman | vanishes into the man | The man | vanishes into another | man | The woman | takes the man and the distance | She carries them a while | She vanishes | into the girl | who takes a | break on a | bench, sucks | orange juice through a straw | listens to hoarse old | Dylan through her earphones | sketches the blowsy | park flowers | with asteroids and jangling guitars || She knows | this night will be | crammed with epics, she just | has to choose one, but | maybe she’ll just wait | and look out over the city | from her balcony | stowing her tears | for another day | and keeping her powder dry?

Hidden in everything | the subtle connectors | lash particles together | A small fishing boat | the cold | sapphire of a gull’s eye | the phase of the moon | a brand of perfume | Put down | what you are holding | Forget | what you will | forget | Love | is a powerful memory, but | look | how the room | vanishes into the mirror, and | look, how the mirror | vanishes into you

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)