from Exits

the dark opens. the sensing body transforms

data into depth. the violet tender point in hips sub

anatomic seam of contact. in the momentary

floodplain between sleep and waking, map the exact

correspondence between metaphor and this

crushed pool of shimmering nerves. converging in the nameless vivid

debt like rapture rises out of lack

I have tried to trace the exact

point of contact. lacework field of non-

local particulars. these are issues

of communication, you said, signals

carried across distance, tracing

paper of the voice

we will wash our sheets in blue woad, then the walls.

trace each silence back to its concordant archway, each coordinate

root of indecision. as when, broken up with longing, stone began to resonate

with future losses, to archive gravity’s insurgent data, the delicate

radii of eyelids, the sheen of supermarket fish

light passes, like a tenant, through what cannot be owned

to detect a system’s point of collapse, place

the contact mic against your throat. hear the skull

aeolian and vegetal. how each word, tuning, gathers up all

prior sound. seeking, as a plant does, potable depths