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Fra il dire et fare
che il mezzo delle Mare
— Mario Savio
For Lyn & Leslie
The hand without its palm would be nothing
Tooth’s roots understood as its fingers clawing into the jaw, soft calcium shale
The eye does not blink but rather this lid forms an architecture
Involuntary discourse
How can a painter sketch that blue, this grey, veined with the limbs of a thousand bare
trees (ulcerated cherry) when I can’t remember even to include every word?
Hush of the furnace, hum of the computer, the soft ratcheting of a small analog clock
The only shadow cast by the moon
A time of simple genocide (as if anything were simple
Returning from the war to find his old job filled by a young man with children – if they’re
alive today, they would be eighty – he simply found another, holding it for over four decades, never again to
seek employment
Thus tea burns off the roof of your mouth
Senators in single file like school children, each signing the book acknowledging his or her
oath as a juror in the forthcoming trial of the president, each handed a souvenir pen
Look out the window to see if it’s snowed
Or your weight in the bed next to me
Neuroptera in flight, listening to children negotiate which game to play, domed theater,
lost along the Schuylkill (which only Philadelphians know how to pronounce
Goat milk pie
But the hazelnut breading for the trout later killed me, an abrasive to the intestines, raw
Rare, roar
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