spiral station

when i forget my train of thought, i

just follow the track back to you,


to your looping voice, a trusty rail car:

i love the way you think, the way i


think when i’m with you, the way

only you under-stand the vast sad-


ness of a lost button—the sudden

static that needs but cannot be filled.


the end-less metal snakes through

rusty words/languages/loves;


catalogued and measured out in

phrase doses: hay mucho frio.


packing and moving and emptying out

yet another house, seeing it laid bare:


the walls, the windows, the doors, the

base-boards; the parts that always


blended in before; now naked and

screaming: life happened here!


this dust, these cobwebs, these

memories came from your very bodies:


skin, brains, spirits, bones—each

room is a poem, each corner a


transference of smell, touch, sound,

feel that will never be reproduced.


you use it all to write a six-pack song

that you carry & whistle as you move


along through the harmonies, chords,

installations, tiniest shreds of signs—


over the wide open acres of sound: until

you come to the end of the line.





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