Poetry

We are not allowed to take photographs.
Not allowed to tell you certain things
Or which things those are. The screens

Two men walk on a path. 
One has a blade in his pocket.
We do not know if the edge

First, decide where water stops
And ice begins. Then, where ice

If hunting a lion, the weight of one’s gaze will scare it off. 
So one must always close his eyes before hunting a lion. 

The boss would like to see us not in person but would like to see us
do something better the boss would like to see us see ourselves differently

Against black matchsticks,
rotted fangs,
plus and minus, sum lines, mathematics, 

She went to Zurich to rescue a man.
She’d made all the necessary maps. 
Paul Klee would’ve painted this woman

We are high performers not normal not just performers but high ones we 
perform things make papers smell like perfume we don’t order things other 

Ink slurs into byssal threads,
split blue caskets of mussels
scapular in ritual archipelago, butter, cream,

The problem is the voices

I can’t get out of my head. On the bridge, the captain’s playing
“Break On Through”; he’s been