POEM

a place aurally locatable by train
self smelled, the skin, the skin bored of the outer off
to smell the under, went to the katana and took my sock off

a year-idle hit
's not ours to be part of
the breeze is good
want to be assumed
by matter

I never do that and I should
these are the fans
dell says

to be assumed
by formed matter
things my lungs, like thermals,
took up, causes

all injury
magic mountain
the illness of time

in no such many
the forms at what distance
determinant tide
relief, as no such many

wears down
for, with
what grass
's relief at woodpecking

the profanity of the trauma
in the equality of the forum
madly stressed

smear some crabgrass on a wet trunk
to smell of gutted fish
the skin off

to stay til dark
to know the activity of the light let go
what when I lay me down
's done is uproot

can't tell you oak
nine's wooden light
is to uproot