Bad Photography

Articles of clothing
scattered on the hardwood
would seem novel
if everything were novel.
It seems a shame that
silver particles and knowledge
of cameras from Maplethorpe
to Terry Richardson
should coincide with lack of thought.

Age disregards this.
Our rooms disregard this.
Painting here surpasses.
Things on the carpet and concepts.
Wishing that misanthropy
were lovers, wanting
to walk the dark streets
and being tired of the night
and scattered articles of clothing.

Salt

Encroaching
on where dreams die in sawdust.
It is a real place. Saw
dust is absorbent, life
wet. In barn
a bloody nose would be
analogous, if you were
packed in salt and were anemic.

How could finally
losing the limb and repatriation
be better than this? Does
each limb not need
an artery for bringing oxygen
and taking out the lactic acid?
Every barn day people seem
more eager for the salt.