Up to and almost about


Night. I watch my blindfold

and listen to the foam plugs roll

with a pressure that is at once expanding and eroding

I hear movement

in my dreams,

this intense scoping view on the pores,

on the follicles that twitch and

rustle like dry grass

I never

know whose skin

I wake to the ringing and the shutter-whirr of blinds,

fans spin and I am drawn in the


frame by frame sketch,

on old newspaper, in each empty space there is

last year and 1998 and the stocks prices are on the rise I think,

I think I see greyscale blood I think,

I think I left my keys loose in the bricks two hours ago and I’m standing in front of my

door rubbing my forearms,

I think I cried there,

in the deep hollow noise

billowing through my throat,

that colorless force like

gas through air,

like at once the trees and the bleachers

resonated with me I think I’ve trusted metal more

I think that if you break glass you are really just bringing it closer to sand I think

I am

closer to sand. It’s getting warmer;

I am throbbing; it is nearly spring.