Man and Wife, and Man

Damn this month. Damn staring at the clocks. And the clocks. Man and Wife, and Man Sycophants. Egrets. Tall birds and legal—shot to shit. We touch the marble. The marble. We touch the marble, screw the tricolored chandelier bulbs. This island scene requires a plum, a yoke thrown down to squash the plum, a burning neck to pattern the grass. We touch the grass. Congruent. The erotics of dwindling space, i.e. when the boundaries we have marked ourselves against decrease, and a hardening presses forth from crossed wood: only at death and over our dead body, but never to be crossed while alive, and certainly never while eating. Man and Wife, and Man A pageant with a memorial mounting the half-active— petrels in the ears, the pitter devastation. Only tendons found in the top-dressing. Meeting an animal cut on its way, multichambered stomach growling. The nation readies butchery stalls of elk crack, brushfires we set anyway. A pause in the pond, a life taken though a glut remains. What apparitions might say about all this waste, this decay… Man and Wife, and Man A cascade bends the body with index in the neighbor’s patch slinging manure. Huntress, glad to talk pearly in the mud room. The season—writ in calculations—fails through the night personable odes to organs. The piano is open though nobody plays. A diorama falls to the floor whilst you grow refusing your ordure and strudel. Man and Wife, and Man Your orange and blue scarf frozen in the night knocks against a cupboard. Bound sympathies of lonely, elderly women insisting the rabbits be put back in the barn. An overarching bough with a file of fruits across a bed of easter grass. Make a soiled topknot for him, a kittenish bun for her and stickiness for all. I’m changing, he says, you know it. She blushes and rolls to the old hollow lane. He chases in shame. Puckered and prim her mouth narrates him. Neither watcher nor teller nor singer nor writer wishing the exposition into a spoken bow, emanating from perfected breath A thick curtain slowly parts—the folds rub flint and salem salt the oft-demented crowd, their hands. Man and Wife, and Man Cutting the light amassed dead in the thriving path Remember with humor those stuttering Remember them dovered star-swathing
The Pines have work appearing or forthcoming in a few places, and soon in Volume Four, a book-and-record set.  More can be found at