Even then and although a latecomer’s look around
suggested I had confused the given with consent
and my keep for comprehensive
I burnished the tunic. It was disintegrating;
I brought it on as once a gloss was brought out.
Even then and however assiduous still I
found my flagrancy and, david of me, divulged.
And, raising myself, soaked lip to chin in compote,
shot back a telling giant glance.
What ordnance tore down,
revealing, eaten hungry,
from the looks of me:
original insufficiency.
If no one grew up of the integer—you
know the one—I raised myself, and was to be a man,
in him grew a throat around the fear, once around,
to feel it rise and a valve to catch
its olive taste
and send it—person to personnel—below.
A bete noir, a weak suit, one that breathes.
Never is it imperiling integrity that
depresses the call button. Nothing so helped me
more. Who may I say is leaving ill enough alone
and what is all this antecedent
pulling moreover on
the fitted bedding of malingerers?
What’ve I got here before I got here
that isn’t—outpatient intake—
there there consolation?
Him I found in the dative case
thrown concussive on the very air, west expectancy:
he said I sat close enough to notice if I wanted
his black eyes burgeon at cruising altitude
and before descent he could, he believed, if I wanted,
taste it rocking back,
like dialing a memory.
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