we each appear, inventing new stories,
falling prey to little more than diaristic preciosity.
a broken picture appears in the soil,
a close-up of catastrophe, of
hallucination, of the eyeball of war.

beyond the explosive exemption of this alibi,
a life like raw meat. galvanized skin.

where the sky is white insurrection, where
the object which remains is youthful,
the investigation of expectation abandons
this life of gravestones and suffocating perfection.

it is a sense of delirium, a team of stains.

we are driven to the mud and the mob,
from certain floating organisms of coercion;
this warm winter bending in waggling,
childish letters. the waiting magic
of anger is visible, strangled, overcome
with insecurity. the eye is wounded
like an unfolded spectrum.

the night is savaged, tragedy enclaved
in an old-fashioned heart.