Send More

Check the box, subject
can still sleep, isn't

eating fragments. The flannel stuff
of local waitfulness

worn in. I am home where
my mole warms. Tinderbox,

hullabaloo. The dog nosing
pillows of unconcern, hi Mom. And now

my importance is due. I find
what, outpacking the shells and sundry

appointments: you and yours. Your skull
I bunk with, on the watch. Mock up my day

book, spooning fungible
anything towards my face, where

I wore it. Batty old
driving horn, noisenoise. I am so

sorry I can say nothing more
consoling to you for love in action is

a story we each. Halve
this guiltshare, the erotics

of difference, an unskilled
comma between us curling. A fetal thing

the world is nowadays, the rub. Greats and
ancients: You are in

your book. I am
chain-smoking. There is razor

wire it is out there what
to be done. The what hum. Our pet

debate. Should I
simmer? What mouth is left? Skulking, my

pot for weeks, me. Over the
phone they tell me they're here.