As/Is







2.28.2004


act of structure

apologies to the dishwasher open and aching
to catch david's ankles; he never
stacks the dishes. confirming he is
a child, too little to continue
reaching for the yawning bag
of pretzels
still (staling) on the kitchen counter.

david complains.
his ankles are tender used to folding
over foot under heel under desk, where
he belongs. the kitchen is no
place for little

ones.

so i'll close you. it's late.
my desk full of paper i don't know how much
all of it disavowed of their
faith that
words are sacred
meaning sounds,

meaning being serious
and brown-eyed.
(metal)
meaning the sister of steel.

i meant to commit something
heavy in the kitchen

before a poster
of bruce campbell
smirking over my shoulder.