fuck up some commas

    
  you: glass archivist 
  to be given the go-by.
  
  i don't care to people-watch,
  i am tired and have laid down my shoulders,

  made understandable by the sad imposition of poetry (you always were above letters) you,
  the world’s analogy for itself,
  
  cook-smoke honeysuckle.
  pleasures of the craft are these touchings of rain to roof. 

  leapt and two steps to the right.
  the bloom now is nonmomentous, samed 
  
  and adult, logical rather than religious, the structure put to 
  visible paper, the light a cold and tactile white, the ceremony observed.
 
 
 
    i resent stability i 
    yearn for sadness and heartbreak 
    and a freer uncertainty than mine, a
    sentimentality upon the moment, lathered, 
    life being life rather than a many-act play about it. please, 
    please don't understand me.