the tear that comes before the cloth
cosmic rip before expanding stars
a pulse so slow it cannot be detected
so in the trembling of our time
trying to retrace becomes
another way of standing still
nothing pressing on it from any side
one of those sloppy earthquakes
undulates through the house
you’re in a vaguely medieval city
you’re twisted up tight
that desire for forgiveness
for sins not even your own
everywhere you go the idea of doors
is driving people crazy
just the idea, not even the thing
thus we wander in his regard
light through the clouds seeping into
what we know: ignis fatuus
anything accusing carries a heavy strap
having nothing to hide
becomes something to hide
we are totally eager for an opportunity
to use the word pincers