We keep track of what we bore, as if the boring into is
the holes we leave by boring.
It makes me feel like paper without the delicate.

It is of the utmost importance that I do not make you the places that I am likely not to go to, like I make the city stairs, rope ladders, dull rain and a dull breeze.

We talk about thunderstorms.
I wonder if you smell like anything, like dirty sleep
like I do, or excitement like the dull rain,
your hypothetical childhood.

Enormous ears navigate my enormous head like a globe,
with charts and tools. I sense
you in the dark.

I am the magnifier. The leaves
with small holes
bored in them.
You keep this stupid, difficult life
and now I just

I wonder if I’d offend
for being so simple,
for just being a person.

The face is always burning because of the glow of a computer,
humiliation, beer, or motion.

Gesture is all pause.
Moving is not moving, not silent.
They rattle like a couple of cheap
copper bracelets on a raised arm. We blink

over frames

and when you blink you
draw a string map through a series of desks and chairs.
We are the scratching and the scratched.

The wheelhouse, my energy source, water
tempered, and not the river.

The officials are super soft, Oh,
opening body
the humming of the machine. 

First, the war, the act of war, the plunder, raiding. It’s like how hair could bristle before you even had your beautiful hair.

Look up from your computer like there’s no such thing as an armor piercing cartridge.

Your eyes are two harrier jets. Your smile is a harrier jet. Everything in you is named for what it hunted.

The agency has released
its preliminary report on the Sept 15 crash. 

Things can be too right,
like really clean hair.

Be faced with
what’s facing you from across the room. Later you

Relax. A few
weird gifts in the bottom

of a heavy bag.
Nice vest, by the way. 

            The Mare

                                                                        in Middle Welsh is

            something

stuffed into

a             shoe closet under

the computer

overflows            with flowers

                                    firemen arrive in the office and we

trade                  significant glances

                                                                        hair too long, ah,

                              I know you too well

            The computers molt

         flowers stick in my throat

my brothers starve in heavy bags

                                                                                                             the notebook fills

                                                                                                                    with numbers.

                        Digital signage is awkward

in             cheap shoes

The small skirt                        Mare, the         sea hair or         horses

The small battle lord of Wales pass in millions

great or splendid

iudd has the meaning of

            lord

The girl does not receive the pages but a history of the pages

does not receive the words, “give me your blonde, pounding heart!” in her ears but in her hair and fingernails.

does not walk lightly across the thin carpet and up the stairs and up the stairs

does not walk effectively over cobblestones in high heels, faltering (I want to break your ankle, carry you crying)

does not forge things or read by forging light or steal from medicine cabinets in bathrooms at parties.

does not receive a handshake and the glance is less the glance and more the absence of the glance, after.

does not receive the conspiratorial text message: call when you get home dont ring the bell

does not receive the carefully shaped plea to be anything but the tone of the plea like a flute.

does not receive the acute, telekinetic, gut sticking sinews of his chest like tightspaghetti on a fork.

Crossing the street walk too slow you I
stealing we don’t
read the same.

You push gums to the bottom of the cup.
Every story is litter then & wax paper
You start

with trouble on cobblestones, pacing and soon
you’re a leopard. I think it has something to do with darkness.
Sheer like bus windows. The lance corporal is ignored
and close to tears. Grizzly bear moves into his house, fixes

that ceiling fan.
Blank stare, a house
with no roof, the crap at the bottom of the pond.
This is not living. The lance corporal weeps.

The corpse, the head,

Lancepesade, old soldier, broken lance. Shore-leave
is more about the sidewalk. You buy me a sandwich. 
I am filled
with roots through me and in me.
Part of your body is made out of rock.
The lance corporal

imagines playing songs (give me your blonde,
pounding heart!)

I am going to finish you tonight 
in this sadness I’ll 

fill you like a glass

There is nothing there
it sounds like black noises bad tastes
my instrumental tongue.

I lick spit
and the fluorescent orange bean soup grease
from the joint of your disposable spoon.
Small white mouth parts,

I am like leaves floating in something because I have not properly been filtered.

Residual means you’re a little behind residue
sticky like an infant
I’ll ruin you like a pair of shoes I ruin
in the woods, weeping like a reed
because I didn’t want to be there in the first place.

Pining has its roots in torment,
dark boots, ginger ale, popcorn,
gasping at the movies.

make it a sign for all your friends to sink you like a stone.
a part of the hauling and chewing plastic
one way to test yourself between reckless.

I’m reckless. I want a neater husband
and deeper scratches
it was special: breathe.
a herd of buffalo: no one
wants the best for us.

I want tectonic plates a garden hose

we are a national museum
a grizzly bear stuffed and the button to smell
like gunpowder. the roof is well-preserved

one of the oldest cannons in the world
howitzer, supergun,
I keep giving up and it isn’t working. 

Get rid of the last letter from the word
I am either on the edge of this big rock above the water or
an ideogram on the beach on the cape twice removed from you.

Make a list of things you’re not,
like dessert wine and those weird dry patches
on pavement after rain.

I literally spend the whole day stealing your bored clauses and rotations.

The cadet in every play, I look good in that skinny air force hat.
You type with flourish. I stagger around the room.

The alveoli are the final
branchings of the respiratory tree
and act as the primary gas exchange
units of the lung.

I lost another section of my skin today, breaking
myself into smaller pieces while you expand in me like a fern.
I call myself an ideogram and you walk from home.