The flame the neighbor yawns into
is more capacity than category.
She knows a lot about how people
get along and get by, a device
for do-it-yourself typology.
As long as they have money
and a decent job, they perform
an action modified as natural language:
speak English, speak recognizable.
Isn't this flurry, this ice in the freezer
in the kitchen, encumbered?
One thing you can do with an offer
is take it, so the extract
begins, eye-balling mother flanked
on her left, single-parent family
with references, materials
for a constructional pair.
Habitus and orthodox manners
prove a toxic word scare.
I remember swooning, a comedy,
a book of the book of a girl's life
hitting the tripwire of smell where
all memory explodes at once.
Much of life becomes background
and scoring, a tie to future sentences.
Here's the milky hint of content,
an archive as a gift of long life
never kept (to live is to erode).
So look away, talk the long term
of "passionate wit" and shock attack.
Embrace the abandoned, misfit
and unclaimed stills of recitation.
Epistolary shadows and real-time
grave-digging, a decent question
at the heart of all broken records.
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