Our white dresses show through
the simple twilight
Darkness perforated
Father is a fragment
a fractal of religion,
and a lesson unfolding.
He’s fallen into
the only thing we talk about.
The practical things fall
victim to absurdity
and why care much
about the faint faces
on the window of a night train.
You scream delicious
with bags of decadence
dripping a condition of resident nectar.
Someone mingled with high air might understand
the pastiche quilt of sameness—
like midwestern visions of the land
without a pony
a project of honesty upon accessory—
an endless reference, controlling comets
And you are another
gentle singular, solo facsimile
wrapped in a blue tarpaulin, undying ocean.
You suffocate in shine, miss a smile,
creased in the horizon at a sunrise-silhouetted bridge
a generous view, a stately reply
a drawn growth, mapped network of marrow and steel
suspended by seed and steam. I was wasted on me
contrived of brick. A sequined eye on the sail of astonished clouds
unable to blink a mistake.
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