Package From Beyond The Walls Of This City

As I walked back to my house, i heard
a stranger that passed me by mumbling numbly to himself
about why

a sidewalk will never unfold itself
near the end of a routine
and then become
a fretwork of shadows.
It was there. It was there
only to tell you that you once stepped on it.
Bunchgrasses grow afterwards,
the lean collection
of surviving images.
The spaces start to divide
in the direction of the goldfish
an ancient arc sailing above.
The squall walked towards the fading village,
sending the schoolchildren
to their covered homes.
Today, i’m standing in the living room.
Today, i can’t move
or crawl into the gorge of this city.
Its secrets, its icy winter morning
purporting gestures
sometimes too much
like a horror in the afternoon
only the difficult, interred figures
are near
so near it is almost a surprise
and there is no crash.
Maybe there was
on the nightstand. It could be

that the letters there persisted
while there was
a blackened music that carried
the still-life roads
with their still-life vehicles
to a condensed glance of
the unspoken room
the frieze ruffled
by waves from invisible countries. The broom knows,
the armatures everywhere
the blanched rainfall
and the tang of a flood
that’s coming this way,
that lags
because of aging
because of either attention
or privacy that is mistaken
for abandoned halls.

It was clear. The gleam
of shapes, almost deaf,
the intrusive circuit to a book
the call i made at dawn

flew swiftly
above sandbanks
lints of
ineffable shipwrecks
like bushes redolent of
routes that lead home
residence after residence.

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