ilb'al

These words are the bones of the

past are the way of sight:

book mirror crystal eyeglasses

clock :gut cloaca snore son los

huevos del aire y añoro el

ahora en que aparezco en que

flicker ,flame almost out is a

circular wall and a gate between

cheeks a pool fought over

in the palm of your hand blood

drips from your eyes

pinche poesía like clamps

shut the turd pinched off

- what you left – a nostril

blow – stiff mouth shut the

fuck up I should – or shape yr

lumbered exit stuffed with

socks • yr shadow bleeds

white all the red you strang

led skin flaked in a bag of

onions paper sherds I walk

upon – listing the voices on

a paperclip – I named yr

swallowed tortilla - “Frank” I

think ,or “subsequent meandering”

,ah my clotted door !

the dream of the letter R

is a dream of a tool sinking

in a lake the lake are the

words you always forgot