I’m incapable of being breathe. I read for a student-based lit
contest last night and in my chest the air clogged velvet fuzz
of life, not brief, not forever either. A dictum, as it were: I am
alive whether I want to breathe, whether brief. A family at a
neighboring table unfolds a blueprint, they keep uttering this
gorgeous accident: infinite window, infinite window. As I see it,
the infinite is as good as a hand against glass, in that it is a way
to press ourselves against time. The poems I read hurt, college
a source of agony seeds, all the bodies pinned down overdone
with vodka and the out-of-body. A plant uncurling from the
torn void. To be torn like this, it is never done tearing. Bleat
of the infinite siren, amber limbs, green diction singeing ears
a new patina ring. My body was a sac I took with me to college
always already the infinite window, torn and pushed and ready.
I write along my overdue utilities envelope The core surrounded
by a crust, I do not cut a check. Drop it unstamped into a box.