(Upon excerptions/Howard's End)

flux. foretaste. throws up. spectacle. binding. entrusted.

She throws up her hands

and liquids poured on the body

can’t get in the way of yes now

yes now yes now. Alone & lonely

aren’t synonymous in any room

with sound in it. Or burn. What-

ever’s making the breath makes it so.

Since we’ve stopped moving about-

she’s been in a constant state

of porous – the borders/the bending.

If the city was high and the rock

beach low like the tide – we could

have kept all the art hung with wire

in the walls. Before the city

was a city it, was the richest-

soiled farmland – city oh city—keep

the divine folded over our clotheslines!

We wanted to know the name

of the voice posing an authoritative

hold over London. And when? Which

Generation? Which common? Which

wealth? Thames sinks and we sing. We

sink humming. We wanted to post holds

over pouring and we did. None of it was

real except for the realness itself.

For the redness and for the it. We

Painted palimpsests pink on each

other’s skin. Hands and finger

marks like trees or tributaries, like thanks-

giving turkeys or that bruised skyline.