dear architecture,


why does the tongue darting inside my mouth feel like the intricacy of licking out a keyhole?

from here, the summit of Simone Weil’s

“if only I could survey a landscape as it is when I am not there”

I can see Christopher Cranch’s sketch of Emerson’s “transparent eyeball”

surmised as sunrise

I find the need to speak a roughness through others, to whet the key

to turn, clef, open, to cleft

I am so far from a raindrop’s view of cellophane I can feel a well inside me, growing

so the image of flight after it’s left is a column. is a callus




                dear architecture,


it’s my fault. because I can’t see the economy I am I am the economy I see

a seedling. when I thumbed your apple, I couldn’t re-amalgam the apple tree’s posture from
its rooty gravitas

because some migraines can only curve to degrees of their spectacle

so re-amalgam me, migraine

wear red like an erotic secret the lingerie of history it wears to bone

dear architecture,

maybe I’m going too far, fishing silos out of the grain

but why doesn’t description amplify the apple-flower’s celebrity?

rather anchor the object of pointillism instructs one steer attention to the grain’s discursive

(cf. an obelisk’s “pliant feint” toward the sun to wed what?)

I mean what I say when I say something like, John Wayne is the lingerie of folk history

fronds’ view of mosaic

the delicacy: underwhelmed, overhung, overflowed

but that’s what I like I like this vase,

that I’m vessel, vestigial pivot to a likened eruption

: synonyms of yellow

vestigial pivot

so van Gogh of you

what romance of apocalypse you fluff into a pillow will supersede your sleep-talk

whispers of pianola. if you have to whisper, whisper them to me

what I occupy by undertow

because flowery flowery flowery:

the last glints the knife twists into I won’t deny what fidelity implicates me

a harlequin’s humiliation stems from the care one takes positioning them on stage

that wavering ballast, itself a mast

, we call it