Sandra Simonds


                                    wandered Westward into  things happening these cobalt fluids drip
late singing “stars, stars”      registered the miniature gardens    the bell came tumbling

down saying goofball          you are mine not that you have not thought
to touch the space    between the fingers
[like webbing or the howl moon Christened]

worth the monitors of the West    in transit they shout  think Harder love Harder
do Harder but couldn’t even ask for            that space that says buy nothing (and worth

         has gone into      the static of flesh stone)    in transit the suitcase sparkled crimson, as you sang “Beast of Burden”
the fluids pressed into flower books        for perfumes  latch onto the eyelids . Came

Across this evening of copper strumming  poor instrument she who was guided once
for the East gate anything is an indication of vertical sunshine[s]            As in a banister

to hold these lifting bodies                                    to sing to the rolling eyes of participation
the lung’s   orange century      [peeled back]        bubbling skin          our century our chord

of truth    not as if    to try on the overalls in your midwinter limbs fresh as plants and paint
the coffin for a midnight spectacle     day of the dead housewife    crying for the drug son

Westward      the estuary of mind    collapsed like a sugar field  on a slave Isle to interpret the monitors of splendor or
airport air in a nostril     craven for a green quarter

strapped to these monitors the yellow bird could not fly straight could not oh the espionage in feathers highlighted by the
far fetched deposition and even the health

center’s one true employee could not help but pull those butterfly ribbons of blue fluids
to fill up a lonesome body she                                 was shaking she in her supplemental

response the estuary of saltwater fishes blown from    green grass as we now understand
the dismissal     was a starvation around the cornerstone moon ball

Westward [the manor    of holding-ons    was upon the weeds or snapshot] poses beyond
the wire fence she stood     eclipsed only by her mind’s crooked shadows   and then the

dogs began their     shimmer madness with a howl here and a howl there and we knew
boy did we know the ribbon fluids    would rise within the bodies     for the yellow bird

caught in the wires    where the speech can only indicate [the lack of pleasure] she shook
between sheets     so that the dream would      be perfected in the ice rings distantly

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