Should this not be an exercise in faith
and not despondency? I wont to hear
you in whatever way again voraciously.
Up ended, again. Over the roakes, past
car crash-site, over (even) glowing piles
of embers to arrive at this. Ta! Fare thee
weller upon leaving than at first arrival.
Or fare farther, however. Woods sloughed
off this too while crossing through them.
'A psychosexual thriller' of waiting. Offed
these same woods, however made to
planks and into the water of not one
man, but three men: the overages of them
that pushed a space out in the sand
and made it glass by heating, so that
no one thing can live there afterwards;
water may collect there happily and
stagnate. And covering up this little space
that's been made by whomever.
The lip above of the turned-in ends of basin.
Why're they there? To corrupt this? To hold
this in? I remember laughter. Not from
anyone, but thrice. I recall the taste of liquor
that had no properties, and ice
that made one draw together, steele ones
-elf against the coming cold. Made one
consider cutting something out of life.
