On a Wall    

The motion that is rest,
the rest that is restless
and all the rest
that is so precious

perishes. I come to—
regain consciousness—
when I come to you
and nothing is between us.

Sundown with Paycheck and Pitchfork    

The grass is dry
and dandelionized.
The world is

the slum
the sun runs.
The browned bankrupt

wander their lawns
and blend.
Relax, you are nearly

dead, says some light
nibbling a roofline.
It knows what's up.

The dirt
and darkness
eternal

footnote
what was and will be
in the hiss boom bah

of what is.
Then the sun,
big spender,

blunt-spoken,
draws me me:
squat shadow, a

pale afterthought
doodled by
a tree.