We've tried everything. It is time to try love.

Lord of the linear narrative,

Show me the point at which I should begin.
Stop me when I have said as much as I should.
Regulate my voice, I boom too much
And my whispers are shrill.
Feed me words on those long, slow afternoons.
Allow me the grace of serendipity –
To find lost continents on my tongue.
Give me the gift of silence,
And then set me adrift.

* * *

A is alone
And afraid of responsibility.

X marks the spot.
Failure lies buried here.
X is a stranger,
Sand-pitted from the winds
That blew outside Khwarizmi’s tent.

Y is dangerous, a cleft stick.
Y can hurt
Smudges of down and wing
And the things we do.

i
is that a halo? Or a birthmark?

Q after Q after q after q, after, after,

If B is pregnant with meaning,
R has given birth
to a Snake.

* * *

All afternoon, I have tried to clean this space,
It is not an easy task; it calls for a harsh dominion,
A fierce exercise of will. Each paper is a palimpsest
And all the oddments seem worthy of redemption.

I begin quietly, ripping up evidence.
Then a fury builds, my hands become fire,
I scorch through the undergrowth
Flushing out the furry mammals of old ambitions.

Yes, Emily, now a formal feeling comes.
I understand the extended self; it was here
Sprawled over this table, doppelganger of my mind.
It is here now: flat, brown, coffee-scarred.