Daylight Abstracts
Now flare. Now come to. Now speaking of plastics, salt, snow.
Bright maybe, I cannot give up on you. Cannot taste now or rare or last. Snow’s got its own flash of rightness, own door to, say, plow, or slung, or sky of gunmetal floating down. Said on rising, walking: can’t love this ordinary diurnal run? Can’t not.
Always presenting: Own doors, own chairs, roads, ads. Am I in the wrong place now? Snow’s laced by exhaust. Don’t own sex or house just ringed by, walled in. Haul my rude ways to righteous? Night? I’ve ruined its effervescent waves.
Now flight, now gift, now speaking of plastics, of rupture of corrode. Woke corridored by calendar, woke exhausted in face, spoken of and speaking into thing cold and needing. Needling too.
Old darkness ruptured, old bent over defeated,
now rectangles of fluorescent, of bold blonde daylight
on walls of old dreck now spun to gestalt or defense or splayed hair, now old odes or seeds of thought turned snug in gummy mugs: I’m alone here in a day like an arrow or a lance in a gash. Day, don’t say things, don’t order,
don’t bend me, don’t mold.
