Phoebe Wayne
Stay until late, leave the light, go under the awnings, along and with them speechless, forgetting thunder and mudslide. Come pause at the window. Break our bones all, we think alike.
The girls are draped and have hair like ropes. Where I was going. Downtown, to sample the things made from glass. To dedicate the tracks and look for dumplings. To silk and despair, skip and destroy, in a skirt.
Scorched between minutiae and geological time; systematically brutal parching soon nude made clear pink gold. I scope for all the edges of cuticle and hair, playing at entity.
The seedpods are bombs, the bombs are quilted, I'm after our ampersands, coded for progeny, where the whistling begins, where the sniffling, all rustling, south of the 45 th parallel, teased and refined for travel, breaking teeth on the pedals.
The filigreed knives are a wonder. There's no view to another coast, deadline, sleeping-woman range. Silver is the marker, the maker, our spelling and nerves, the cost of motion.
Their hair like ropes. All falling like ropes into, through dark water. The seedpods are bombs, the bombs quilted, in fire cones break forth into progeny, a shade tree
All body is nude in certain charcoal lines at windows which are visibly surfaces testing opacity making allowances of presence and passage white and blue and pale sun sharpening itself upward, stretching and arcing all body is singular or not the public machines determine the music mornings the height and interstices membrane exterior or depth
In the subjunctive second, call such film frames scratched, along shipping-door streets where phantom trains parallel real routes. Shaking the old rails. Would be a whitish rain, or a pale-green rain. Unsteady the pilings, the murals and the given street. Dream there a carriage for the picture only, then horse and man go pale in fog and in the under-bridge-area. See the rain before hearing, make oppressive music for smoking to, include the shaking and shining pelts, make them scurry to noise. In the evening, belts of tones may perform across the fairgrounds. Another word for the workforce of a moment in strung cords. In small money made bright for the mirrors and running lights. In color by indefinite water. A careful rope of loops may be visible from the freeway, from the banked turn made good by red flowers. The tents may be the same year by year, and taken up to match a scape. A strand of feathers-and-lights may or may not be visible in a month or a month before, or in a given category. Visibility gives up, however, in the grand mouth of weather. Between deep curtains makes a useless stripe. Garden beds chip a house; a roof makes the sky a dull story. However, branches always spell disaster and names, boards, lenses, a certain moth or dream. Having taken a technique, say. And pressed prints into available surfaces so as not to be invisible. Declare a canoe, a body of water for emoting, a ferry for wind-making and an entrée into a stage. Muddled animals with antlers tangled in the woods, in relief on the woodstove. Legible like Braille, meaning: an evening. Having come down from the map, to the horizontal plane, to the dry shops where fancy light is cast from the doorways. Read in electric impulse, rapid-fire, but wrong. Like the barometer says, but more patient, if possible. Read the directional branches like a palm.
with your toy elephant on its beaded string, your hand in the air meaning what do I know or can I hold up these draped cloths while balancing thus, the poor light and the traffic, tilted hat with its tulle pouf, elephant white and featureless, weightless eggshell, on the overpass your half-comical expression and the tracking of taillights through the weather, the water close but indistinct from the sky where one might walk out on the ice in winter halfway to another nation, no trace of motion in close tones, all embroidery and fiction in your chamber you velveted a nest or next vision, the long string looped upon itself on the cushions looking knotted there by an edge by the busstop where town meets town in signage and a signal light, you all pale legs you mustn't move your era is missing
The tricky velvet changes faces to music. A matter of wild bird eggs and slanted substrata, loose bark, thin wrists, made-up stories stored in secret and the same night the bank washed out across the road crushing shells of cars in their rest. This waterbird is gentle with the man's head, beaking it in the scope of the picture. |