when you walk across the soft dirt you are in the wheel tracks. a shipping container exerts no force on your path. the stairs at this point are still wooden, scaffolded in iron to the blue above. ten storeys of stairs in crate-wood against the iron palings and it’s time to empty the plastic bag. nine am before the temperature comes above freezing. eyes hurt without sunnies. vents stacked shine in the earth. can you look at them and not think about the circumference of a body? and what the dead want of us. and what the dying make of their new surroundings. you will stop to pull me back once your own dream is over. the sky’s not empty it’s tensile. the sky’s not empty it’s a pie-crust. the sky’s not empty it’s the skin of all its snakes.   

a little bell is ringing softly under the air conditioning vent. I hope that you are sleeping easily. a little bell is ringing softly. the union poster curls. I hope to return your book to you having read it. a little bell is ringing softly and the clock ticks, muffled. I hope that something holds you through the moment it comes, so that you don't fall. a night does come. we sleep very lightly while you feed, and then return as adults to the wordless world. the doors hiss softly as they open and then close. I cannot hear any footsteps through the glass. I hope that you are sleeping easily each night, and that you wake slowly without fear. 

I'm getting tired of these wee prose poems in a sub-hejinian sub-scalapino mode. I haven't got shit on either of them. it's a series of gestures - atmospheric setting detail blurred into the bodily, non-sequiturs, irregular pronoun use, confessional lines not pursued, faintly surprising rhythms. its crap. 

I've seen leaves in webs before but I've never seen such an elegant necklace. you could be riddled with it before they ever found out. droplets fall from each of your spokes. your awning the wind. I could be wishing you free of pain while you need to take care of a hollow for mildew. I wouldn't do that. behind us sunlight reflects off the green glass and back through the leaves that become a glimmering plane. this needs defence, which is why no one will defend it. though I think she wrote it so I could copy it. and now I am walking past a spaceship renovation receiving a call that he's a misogynist. that's all I've ever done. nearly home. it's coming out your ears. 

"Whatever makes you feel free, that's what you should do. It's really simple."

in the span of ten minutes you can mount and dismount an elephant many times over. you can sew up the mouth of a full sleeping bag or run two four minute miles and have a heart attack. but if you have two contractions you're still not in labour. and you cannot make and drink a cup of tea.

pejorocracy/kakistocracy

Al and his girlfriend Nikky come back to Mum's house to visit with me and to see this place they haven't seen. They're sort of teenage tourists in a span of life. Poppa is dying his luminous death in Mum and Jim's bed. Al and Nikky stack up horizontally in the bed beside him, their heads forming a short column of two, like they are conjoined at the neck. Their watching him quietly is a kind of service to my family and it becomes the quality of the night. At the same time I know they are going to keep the luminosity. I am working in the kitchen but on my behalf Mum then watches Al to help him sleep well until morning. This is the reciprocation of love.  

the library books are somewhere even if you don't remember whether the ring was left on the side table or the wallet that they came over your front lawn in uniform to tell you about this is the height of the uniform coming over the front lawn over the tiny wall we are here to tell you about what has been found a bus goes round whether you have the money it is just down the road where he comes to the door and it's dark stacks of newspapers stacks of bottles you'll have to not mind see I'm blind and the milk the wallet months later the wallet many months later the library card that never got cancelled  his face turning in such a way that you don't see his eyes so it's still in circulation that anyone would move that way down a hall that they have always known the wallet on the bare table the cards still in circulation and he turns at the very moment you hold out your hand

this could be something you refuse as a matter of principle. repetitions which leave you knowing the words. leaves on sun. falling over repeatedly out towards them. he is in the corner against the glass shelf covering his face. we walk in circles through his howling. this is a zebra. this is a giraffe. against the world which makes noises that are suitable for their names. you refuse that for it is too sweet. and when you are more tired you crawl. and when you are more tired you will sit. the ball falls away little atom come to fetch. here skirting on a very fine rim. they are dressed in dark grey and their brooms help to steady them. 

it falls over the edge and we go to chase it falls over the edge we go to chase I have paste for that kind of rift I have six friends who would like to host the water falling over the edge in their garden that is a trampoline quivering out. it is a beginning each one wants the ball but after his molars are pushing up through we find another child hands us the ball and it is a lamp leading to another lamp back and forth all the way to the edges of the garden where the soreness tips over and falls away. she will ask you what it is the the four of them in motion. she will ask you if is your hair so long you can't afford scissors. the water in their faces falling away with the ball you throw in each  direction not yet catch. sore in a little circle around a credit card account. I will find a way to chase it. giving me a tiny edge fine hairs on the fine edge of his mother comes only for a day. she comes only for a day. we'll touch it. to their warm garden made of green water with its flowers and take that swelling there. let's go and take some words with us. he has learned to clap. see the water shakes over the edge.