Alcohol and fruit from walmart

At first the particular gusts
had direction, and a kind of
barred blind beginning, a “how do you do.”
And then came the silence.

We are not like the custodian’s daughter,
who grew up under ancient beauty.
To taste something
we make it disappear.

For a time this was all that needed
to be understood, and we saw to it
with the strict planar divisions
of skateboarders at the park; we

rolled over for the first time,
maybe ever, caught a different bus,
sat had jam
in the smooth locus of.

Traced over by the memory of.
And to apprehend any humming
that still glinted away from
those cozy sepulchers which we sent 

flying through the dressing–room,
we built new vacuums, new sad measures,
if only to see ourselves flowing out of anywhere         
Other than these, our boring old faces.

So now, here, each of us called to the stand,
we can all just scour the stream we’re
always already caught up in
for its most trite recollections:

a crescent moon, an ex-lover’s yawn,
plazas, bicycles. Boo-hoo.
But all the while over the plastic depths
a tremendous shift has seen to us 

one final movement,
nicely precisely,
up to the place outside.