The moth unhinged from the ceiling on Wednesday, the door appropriately named and shed.

Last winter the bicycle spokes catch a hand.

Everyone in a hurry to take the remote, give back an arm—until then.

The building fastidious until there is nothing left, not even a frame for a sentence-shed.

Behind the TV, I’m growing pieces of music, shaken in a bag; we could live on the same channels.

I have grown new considerations for purple, for melody, for the play—the theatre misplaced and fuzzy.

One adjusts and can be two or three thousand pieces at the bottom of the issue, the fairy tale lesson of the castle and boat.

Don’t be afraid to go alone—whom have you told?

Stand behind the dilapidated garage, sorry for your tragic becoming.

The windows can be cleaned from bloodshed, the filthy blackboard erased completely—thrown out, in fact.

The house detaches from the sea animal; there is always a new friend.

Park your car where the sky is holding—grammar untangled, intricate sentences diagrammed—before expunged.

The rebuilding, unruly—Ramshackles!

Afraid of the Orphic music, how it hides, sends us scrambling through the artery-streets in need of blankets.

Press here to become curious again—in love with nothing but the arrival of stage, the haunting music again.

In the meantime, we must go quickly; it is dangerous—and stunning.

The night swallows the sequin stars, moving the clouds cloudy.

You must drink the anodyne, sequestered in language.  

The sea urchin drowns the book of meanings in another book about a book.

We are waiting for time—to glue the paper guitar back on Orpheus’ torn arm.

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