I'd like to put something by you: a broad dry thudding day with the clouds cladding down. Now the universe wants to be known when doing so keeps me from you. On summer evenings,you feel a blankness flood with the stuff of slump and dumpsters, with frescoes, memories and confetti. While the world turns to glittering with light, the impounded soul looks down. Your thoughts like a clingy rayon casing, deflating almost to absence. You and I, walking towards this silent house: the landscape cluttering with incapable machinery, acres of vacant airplanes and school buses explode and the earth split open like a corpse's gassy stomach and the full moon grows red with blood swollen inside it.What if i did not mention death to get started and you listen to music in the morning... the notes nervous as light reflects from your eyelashes.. a voice that seems to come from outer space,a city that burns behind us: by June the city seems to grow neurotic but I am the canals behind your forehead paddling. One day I will clutter the street corner and you'll judge me behind the friction and pretense of indifference. A conception of life as infinitely far away. In dreams, or in these moments of distraction that derive from dreams, summer is ending with imagery strewn everywhere like fragmentary objects exhausted by my dreams. In a silent room surrounded by sand I sleep. Other times, the dead in their milky shorerock in unison in marble chairs. By then, love and blasphemy could be the same thing. 4-12-17.