thinking about the strings attached
to the page, along the warm waters
of thought, & when the dog begins
to wine, abrupt while listening,
we hear the absolute in the shaking
off of wet fur, & another pen
tells a story, shared between one,
the eye in the see, we listen, of
course, the single drop in a
rainfall

copy clerk

the table waits, eight or so in a broken line,
take this, but watch the edges, a paper cut away,

a room of white & grey, too much grey,
follow work-flow, workplace understanding,

it’s a mess of this & that, but the name,
dress to suit, don’t look up, camera eye,

security & the old man who pushes mail through
a machine, find food, but here we go,

paper upon paper, file & forget,
the experts of prep, with a gap in diversity,

a serial reinforcement across the floor,
remove sticky notes & staples,

don’t read too much, but information is
important, & here we are,

smile & look away, bald head & glasses,
wandering eyes watch the copier copy,

then again, perforated edges, cough &
smoke exhales, over the next few days,

the room will grow, smaller, to miss
the open space, the moments within,

arms against, now again, a return,
accents in voices, the nasal sound

of time & broken vowels, listen,
but here, this short ceiling, these cubes,

a room slipped inside as an after-thought,
the stamper stamps, they know their way around,

the upbeat onset of a job accepted, what cost,
paper, a question extended, think

within contained parameters, feed
the scanner, sort & lift the tray,

read into lines
& broken ideologies

the stories of: (Fred

the picture of a girl-like doll
hangs to his right, white
shirt & strong beer,

cataract eyes wet the
world with stories about
life just barely lived,

hands fold right over left,
birds chirp & stories
continue,

he rubs eyebrows in recollection,
words mix with the
static of tv,

dusty thoughts leach & the
conversation leads to another
moment almost forgot,

he knows the time pattern of
errant cars, the sound of
rusty engines,

time dictates a knowledge of
history, a sanctuary in the
way he holds his chin,

& this is when sports & history
collide, where rivers of fish talk
about the catch,

he remembers the ammo dumps
after the war, the cost to
fish, tragedy & high seas,

chemical warfare, the front step,
return from war, old joe, more ammo
& bedford on fire,

the conversation slows, tv, hollywood,
nothing important, yet we look,
confused,

but maybe it’s about youth,
the future of ideas, something
in remembrance,

i talk about frogs & turtles, maybe
the size of trees, the rabbit at
our feet,

talk ends, stories slow,
i sit across & he looks into
eyes, remembering

eyelight

sky & rock meet, the tedious

movement of clouds along

rail lines, electricity &

the random thought of a rundown,

tired spine,

reaching through fields

of trees, a touch of blood

in frost, light spokes of darkness,

space & an ashtray,

a shot pulled, spread out

against pasture, fire climbs

& eaves bend

to be continued: XV – (here

after coffee, at the doorstep of,
cuticle by any other means,
the rights side of the finger,
language in another language
says some of the same things,
there is this intersection of
the mind-set, this originality
in a box, in this last instant,
a series of gaps became dynamic,
a motion of upwords down, together
in this frozen screen, cursor diaries
& dogs breath, still foul, from here,
this, this matter of tract, this one less
stand still, this power cord frenzy,
so much depends, but deepens