by Gillian Conoley

    The sewing machine had a sort of genius， high， oily and red

    over that little hellion's pants.     Joy and Pain crossing legs，

    then coloring in the poverty-

    Are we a blue， blue whine¹ in the restive² trees？

    Are we under the imprecision？

    The beginning endless， ending like chasing deer out of the yard，

    sphere unto sphere it takes a loyal Enthusiast³

    to be

    Death's mother.  Stag on the meadow，

    mare⁴ in the river，

    unwinding green river   wide rock for the resting.

    The man and the woman liked to go there，

    sprawled⁵ across

    the warm hood⁶ of the car， a question under sky， a curve where the trees rustled⁷.

    A patch of brown hair on the white clapboard

    where the deer tried to run off

    scraping its side，

    harsh light in the paint can，

    weightless

    the screen door until you

    heard it click   shut.

    She placed the shell and the action figure beside one another.

    Who is king， my queen， as many tongues as there are swords.

    Gone to field， weeds sway， some places are still

    semi-barbarous you can make a fire under the bridge and smoke.

    A headless man knows

    how you saw what the saw sawed，

    and there is usually enough poetry

    to pass out，   the day is ongoing⁸，

    you can get more material there

    a rough sleeping    writ⁹ large.

    I loved playing that hand harp，        large face

    coming to ask      Who are you，      Where       is your precipice¹⁰？

    The pattern crying， the pins too many colors， surround， surround.

    The pattern crying you be the master， I'll be the life，

    have I been in this T-shirt all day， did I sleep in it， first did I see it this morning.

    Was that you bound in sun on the step， living the life of the seasons， and loving，

    I am recalling nothing of the unloving of ourselves，

    did you not foreshorten into pattern one thing from its happening，

    where you are slowly dying in a city，

    I am born in a town.

    Middling in a hive

    nothing is daring to move anymore.

    Sticking our feet into a template of lakes，

    it is endless， endless and endless a schizy feeling walking back into your world

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