the lonesome ringing
of cameos, and of being ajar,

these recondite

somehow molecular. too near

to compel the divine obsolete
or glass doubting its own skin, missing the integral

in which away's overflow consents
to this dirge of a vertigo-like inland, corpuscles

singing to their roads keyless

adagios, a morass
of dark parentheses.

a story of divide
and its whereabouts

moves toward the lighthouse in the frail fahrenheit,

complaining for some author
in which to delve.


to unravel,
otherwise for a theorem
to contrive, to sway, to be well-versed

until the mob,
its "plural," browse into misdirection
within itself . . . and now it grows.

the self, a simile
in a cage?
some catacombs where we play

and love into
a seeming separate
homebase. gulfs of runes

engulf, until we loosen
the volcanity of indefinite
words, furthermores

countermanding these awful
entering our eyes.


who writes to disembark
for the instead-of rubble. an among thread
contracts the word
for a foreigner.
you make the contraband. you invent
to save the street
blown far to digress
into simpletons of spiked jugular,
tantamount to the oblique.
the I
an easy aim
for the future
at the flood-mark of the regular.


this birthplace.
scattering to winter it.
scattering to heft it.
sleepless as the bones

formed of adieu and air. now the eye is foreign

now the sea is hidden
and what is clairvoyant or misread
rekindles, for that which we forage
is the death of debris.

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©2000 by Camille Martin