July 5

Taking things a bit more far, to further
an idea into words you might want
to someday say to yourself
like they were your own abstractions,
like it mattered.

Own up to anything reasonable, able
to, by algebra, prove I'm really the best
at splitting infinities into tidier heaps
of things no one can agree to call
a heap.

Let the words pile, then, let me
help in the sifting sheets made-up
to keep in mites and moisture
among other certain someones; too
tired to mind

much of anything. Hrm. Maybe
we should try to be a bit more
precise in our language,
among other things.

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Lunes- July 4

Hourly, trains squeal
with people.
The freight is silent.

The whistle is long
with rumbling
caked under it, soft

like the glass becomes
under your cheek
as you try to sleep.

Time jerks with the stops
the local
obliges. You wake

less frequently now;
you know where
the long stretches are

across bridges, past
countryside,
through god-lost small towns.

You can't even hear
the whistle
after long enough.

But it wakes others;
it wakes me,
and I imagine

others as well, tied
up in dreams
as best they can be

while still listening
for those sounds
of the world outside

that pass knowingly,
that will pass
soon, soon, soon enough

for us.

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July 3

An odd gnash of knees,
somewhere in movement
reaching past things
and ideas to people
waxen as ever, unmapped
and scattered billion-parted,
hissed out sneezily, a flume
so wet and despondent
like there was so much more to see.

Painted up now for naught,
all allowed and tired, heavy
with hair practiced to the point
of hands frayed by subtle
axe-work, the wood wearing
down hands rough-hewn

and still on the right side--
really the better option.
So the joints bump together
and the comfort seems lost
in tossed toes and strides,
in want of sleep, in need
of words without holes.

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July 2

Hard quiet and train whistles mingle
and chill like breezes on wet bodies
that haven't yet learnt the warming
that comes with near-total submersion.

Chew in your sleep, snort
refuse to sit up for your glass
of water on diamond dust shoes
and talks of cartography,

as you resolve to study more
and ask for a ticket back to something
more than an itinerary, more
than a warping of the surrounding

city-scape you replace, not taking it
into yourself-- but reflecting it
and being consubstantial and closed,
long gone like late trains that still

need to shout, still call to yapping
backfiring cars, topical, tired.

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