I erased the heart-text and there was a wet spot, a bed, a minor chord
we spleened in [Philadelphia, mon amor], then a tiny purchase unflooded
in the storm, the sky applying itself [apolitically] while the scaffold was a cult                                          
that would bring down or overdo the material and the vision with a breathing.
I entered the ballad of new light hungry, not knowing how to butterfly the lamb.

__

I did my two-year bid and was released to the halfway house of regret where I wished

out the windows I wished were steamed with sex or season [sigh], I did sit ups

and thought of the year I was driving to derange things, to voodoo [you], to fly

speck all the regrets [you, sigh, me, hamartia]. Let the regrets be regrettable. Let them

be brick and explicit. Let the waste be wasteful, huge. Useless wet eyes.

__

Lie down if you’d like and shut your eyes, if it can’t be a trance let it be
dim, let the eclipse in the lids begin, the color shift to crypts of black
that seep a plasmic neon green at the borders that gives way to red-tinged
no longer things [blood umbras] that give way to dream: freefalling soldier,
starfish, fetus, otherwise darling, escaped intention, phoenix of our sleep.

__

Long lines for greater twang on the blue guitar.