Time flies like an arrow


                                              —Anthony Oettinger






for what you have seen vast masterpiece of time-sown


sorrow is a vast masterpiece of time-sown joy also:


in dark, everything's art, so


serious is ovum, ovum's given


































there is no ordinary desire

to bend a Caravaggio into black:

and what you thought was Xmas was never a same into-birth


as all others could see—desire—spreads—across—a city—with little flavored coffee spoons made of bricolage—and desire—eats—herself—for dinner—because she is—hungry for something less sustaining—than a piece of bread or soup for dinner with friends—and desire—is not a verb—that moves where—many others can go with her—and you—my friend—were once desire and now are new—because you're not reborn—just not blind—


                                                                                                            then you eat all the soup.


There is plenty of ordinary desire to

be had outside of sky.


You ate what you could, a city is green, a city is made salt

because made of desire, because made of totems and

buried beneath a layer of

white lace and grease.































What new wants is new's guise as guise, a reversal of obvious platitudes into something less mundane and frivolous. What new sees is how to plant an edge of day at a birth into night, which is not a birth. Edge = frivolity of ficus/focus, extended to built edge into night's friend. Goodnight, again. Goodnight, again. Goodnight, Angelou, angel of morning. You fell into something awkwardly uneven, yet even is where your platitude rested once. And now, you sleep.