thin bright line out west —
thin-ice line, with rotating feet, wrapped in rotting
bandages: the awkward loop before air,
angled madly —
Release. Grab history by the face and be
a hard line. Let the rush of information run
off, water carrying sludge down
the border: mine is the hand, but also machine and
building, even propulsion —
even country: if I take
all this in, who’s to say
phone is not included? Watch the girl half-way
around, in sticky third-world dictatorship, eat
your dreams like they are just
a lemon: nothing and
tiny, sweet. Imagine eating her face. Revert —
what I call a thin hard line of self-loathing
to keep myself sane and conciet-free is actually just
self-respect at this point what’s the difference what
I call parasocialism is just solid old adulation
what’s the difference let’s call it accidental
pathologization of things moving needing out —
ice shifts charries cracks
the line is soggy but holds
my own body worn along, snagged here and there
on the shore — watch it go past,
wave, release.
the last pavilion 