March in circles about the ruined landscape.

& I will witch
all wild things to my palms.

Stormen
händer men Över
tomma/ empty

Soon,
his body will teach soil how to be silent.

I drove in circles
on the patio

“so you can finish & leave. I want no
part of your ekphrastic bullshit.”

teased bouffant crown high on motown
and techni-color screens

I walk, cautiously. There is an unquestioned questioning of my sanity here: by others, but most of all by myself.

I need to tell
you about the pathos of decay, its poetics
of display.

Of the Master, not much is said anymore.

Brethren, kindred monkeys,
drop down to gravel
pocked knees and pray

It was your turned head that faded when I watched too closely, your lips disappearing from my wrist.

Talon the whistle, un/sidle
the bolt.

Dear Significant Other, I barely shudder now, I eat my vegetables

Tomorrow, surveying the damage, they
might well be observed clutching three little
Bibles