flat water.
nothing.

a lit shelf
unground

capitulates

Dear Minotaur, how are your insinuations?
I'm offering you a piece
Of the Great Divide
Tokenly. Number of lines,
Posts,
Staggering.
Contribute to my misery
Or to something else, something wafted
Something hidden
Like the glass boat refracting me
To this badly-televised shore.

A dark farm in a window told this.
In front of the architecture where we all hold swarms.
Arcturus signing out.

maps us a way around the house
objects strategically placed
give us somewhere to gaze
(absently, cottony) while we speak
Anything but your eyes, my dear,
anything but your eyes. . .
or mouth, or posture, or general
existence. We don't want
to absorb you-we want a crisis
in which we can't possibly be involved,
and so be it if such wind
shreds our investments
and carries them to the places
where blown trash collects
-as long as it comes, my dear,
as long as it comes between us.