anon baisch
ff white chalk after
Aridity Chalk Signature
Off white chalk after
a night of aridity :: the soothing
liquidity of an infant
stomach refusing :: the divorcing
signature of maternal
giving :: it should have prepared
us :: starvation without
choice is a silent
gospel :: we kiss
the balm of lips , the slowly
pulse of warmth where
the skin has grown
slack :: there is the cavernous
hollow of a single-
bodied embrace :: the summertime
of flowers always remembers
the withering :: we
have been lied to :: everything
disappears forever
Aridity Chalk Signature
Off white chalk after
a night of aridity :: the soothing
liquidity of an infant
stomach refusing :: the divorcing
signature of maternal
giving :: it should have prepared
us :: starvation without
choice is a silent
gospel :: we kiss
the balm of lips , the slowly
pulse of warmth where
the skin has grown
slack :: there is the cavernous
hollow of a single-
bodied embrace :: the summertime
of flowers always remembers
the withering :: we
have been lied to :: everything
disappears forever
Dark Of Tension
The destiny of strangers is chalk :: Ann Lauterbach
The ubiquity
of passage :: outlines
that go dark in
the dark :: footsteps
passing through
bodies unaware of
the tension :: souls
do not stain like black
blood :: we are far
from the saturation
of echoes :: we are
trailing off in
boredom :: the rapidity
of the tragic :: there
is no consequence added
to the weight of ashes ::
we cannot remember
a single name :: we move
on :: the width of a billion
shadows is still
the same as
the width of
one
Dark Of Tension
The destiny of strangers is chalk :: Ann Lauterbach
The ubiquity
of passage :: outlines
that go dark in
the dark :: footsteps
passing through
bodies unaware of
the tension :: souls
do not stain like black
blood :: we are far
from the saturation
of echoes :: we are
trailing off in
boredom :: the rapidity
of the tragic :: there
is no consequence added
to the weight of ashes ::
we cannot remember
a single name :: we move
on :: the width of a billion
shadows is still
the same as
the width of
one
The Purity Field
It seems a pity to walk into a field :: Keith Waldrop
Fantasy of the absent
perfection :: always the pristine
comes from monoculture :: the dream
hue of the circumcised
field :: the purity
of the hand without
the stain :: the boundaries
preserved on old
rolls of microfilm :: the coding of
god in paper divisions :: the soils
keep impinging into the crumbling
edge-dark ::
the yellow traces of daily
famine are refused :: we
dream of the uniform
bed welcoming only a tolerance
of air :: there is no
room for wildness
in wildness :: the tarnish of
strangers fucking in a cold
field :: and we arson
away the memory instead of
remembering :: we only
think our footsteps
grow back