The house was empty by then.
Realtors flicked cards across the table.
Little marketing faces.
I am interested in this house;
I am no longer interested.
The living roof took rain.
She pulled seedlings out of the moss
tossing them on the slab below.
She framed images.
She arranged images:
they protected each other
when he went below.
On return, he let her know
he had forgiven himself.
He followed her upstairs.
I can’t show you upstairs.
Boasting emptiness and light.
Mountain views. Remembering
is private; by “private” I mean
the poplar blows open every May.
"The poet is of no party." BaudelaireOur manifesto is an act of substantiation.
We reject all forms of futilitarianism, in whatever disguise.
We believe that comedy is the song of the village and tragedy the song of the goat.
We believe what is written in the books, but now we want to see for ourselves.
The single idea, beating on the same doors in vain.
The analogue and the invention.
The death cell.
The first permission.
Though we watch the stage for things to happen, though our minds wander.
By ourselves in the green field, playing our diversion.
Though the story begins with the loss of a home.
Out of the machine, we shift restlessly in our seats.