Disorientation
him in the morning reaching across the banner of his sunshaddow into the please/gold of my high yellow
Neat, even. No more ice from the machine shop or binges of scrutiny from the not knowing or even needing, no more right time/ alltime, they are trite rituals of the mule in my elbow on the table, I told you was a pew and you began to pray, root for my, my, my, root for prior, the discipline stutters in reverse, for fun, for the first time the road is empty except for how young we are in the wheelbarrow engine barging in on our parents, letting them continue on the ledge of a hulahoop, getting neutral like circle vessels looting their ways across my chest middlemost of the middle, where there is shade and it reflects some kind of haven next in the distance, some kind of hymn, mumbled or insinuated with joy for bait for joy is sorrow unmasked, take an unpacked stadium and put us in the way of its emptiness which
I, by you, put on
