Everything in Modulation

∴

yes song is seeing and the size of a moment is the half-life of a color in it.

so its duress vibrates at a wave notation mistaken for the fracture it causes.

so something between that balance, something

as if housed in glass.

if one ends up where they end up and before

the rest

and truly feels this is where they ended up.

if one is mistook.

if one insists upon self while in a canyon.

explain the insane mass of prayer in a given

april

when we are so well in its intended liquid.

break its brick, harvest its figment, parade it apart into a land of pictures.

you who go unnoticed where there is nowhere

to go and not

be.

you that pulls together our system from a long series

of dark vowels.

you, believing replica.

∴

yes beyond you there

are limits and beyond limits a blackened prairie redone with gold

advancing

like history, treasure, garlands of strung together occasions of capacity.

we stood in it, saw its work, moment-struck.

brick, glass, steel, bone–– at some point these become the same

constituent.

we talk to see around its prismic space.

less flesh, more mind

less flesh, more mindful

ness.

we know the moon’s exact distance to earth, the worth of a tree,

are having trouble determining the size the brain swells to

thinking about this, what mods appear when it imitates flight, envisions

plummeting

into blue.

then not at all.

we’ve changed the body into the ladder that leads into the same body.

∴

yes there is so much color in the trees at the hour before ache begins.

begins and becomes a snake jaw dislocating,

a three legged table, poor

spirit moving like smoke and the way

it’s filling, somehow or other, what’s never here.

what if carrying around nostalgia were not the carrying around

of a wild amphibian.

what if colors were looser, slipping

into heightened degrees of genuine copper, floodwater, forsythias’

perfect shadows, shattered jaw, to relate

in some way to the tonality heard when someone says

abide.

they

are.

death is.

∴

yes it feels like rain, like many things.

the creek beds dare fill up first

with water and then what water means.

now there is surprise at the taste of water.

a wildness of eyes like necrotic stars and of

the dead,

strange but necessary, a flag on the first noticeable day

of wind of the century from now to when.

name their electricity.

name its serum.

name the yardstick of fade and recall.

see actual thought like a real branch, the impression

it leaves

of a square inch of tenebrosity that is always here.

grant it boundaries.

∴

yes we don’t look like we are

any more

in this p.m. light, in this divide between brain bind and wane

and breeze.

what’s come of the loops and pops and loud tocks

we’ve let into our bodies.

what’s come to the mind alone is a small planet, a song planet.

how to not feel a part of it.

how not to be dust.

the spoken world reaches, wraps the ear sufficiently

before meaning, refuses a standard judgment to

forget, be going.

another daybreak, another headwind, another head full of dark

common sense feeling adverbial in this wind,

another daybreak, another.

we open eyes,

and to build and become and to shake free to build fate a glass room

in the vibrating air to place in it forever the word

stranger.

what is it inside that needs to never have enough words

left for nomenclatures of loving one

self.

life traverses a poem and catapults better noise.

asks

in nether

waves, canorous gas.

the circuit in the dust in the head

with its part tradition part particle part sun-bricked

sparkle

begins again in the final cobalt of the world with a ha.

∴

yes.

head in that direction, gust.

to love the big day death requires of us is

not to not care to know

why us.

a plain old grasp spends days.

moonlight is not the only thing letting eyes

generalize.

not the only evenness

coagulating sign and referent

into occupied space.

our dead are

never known

for what we do not mean them for.

they may only be that orange mortar,

that violet situation the memory of the day, the day’s,

the day itself fuzz from.

their color is recognizable as real gunmetal’s

amidst a dream-like kind.

their door opens somewhere

outside somewhere dark

and into this.

all terminable things of day coming to focus

thru

the

forehead

thru the gun metal.

and still never there.