she found him laying, curled upon his own
fragmented bits — protestanting loneliness, denying denying
a conspiracy of melted, muted
feeling — she said i know, you are a warm body
in the morning, your sadness adrift and pulled back, tide
before the shores, before the sun.
she said i have worn down porn into cortisol paths and I
don’t know: imagination versus mortal lust. or what is, the soft
skin-cost of Potential, of turning the idea around around
making prose, the potential for Character. written
down, romance novelist, I would only write
loneliness, the type that extremists wear, a hanging
leather skin, a decor softly removable
and the pleasure – the wet, I cannot deny it — the seeping
of the girl-fingernails picking it off
and apart.
she said your unknowableness, your hangars behind face
are open to interpretation; that which slide into
dreams is not my prerogative to deny — or should it
be? soft cumtrails of dreams made — standard of tight
heliocentric words arranged, telling tight feelings — I,
all past thoughts burn into me, recognize the pleasure
of the idea, turned.
the last pavilion 