Issue 160, Winter 2001
Here is what is, sound from sound,
A song giving off the nowhere of an ocean.
She suffocated on particulates
Every time the song was rising straight ahead
In the cleanliness of her wall.
What made her forget when she needed nothing
The nowhere to come from in her-
Like everyone's-lack of direction.
When she would decompose the shrubbery
Leave the trees alone or lose herself around pools
From the hindsight that was wrong
When she was partial in an explicated
Work in progress:
Any old tree would do when her precision
Could never find out, right away,
The sound from which they fled,
When she couldn't rise up, or,
Listening to the sky, lose track
Of this her commonplace, crowded stopover.