there is a house     in the wet of   my softly stirring mind
slick with fiction,           its breath  slow and heavy
      i want to wilt  under the porch, i want to urge
the sun in             the front room    out of sullen memory
knots that form     inside of you         when you look away
 small miracles     stir awake           a grudge, a gratitude

      the past is its own apocalypse     some extract
the house                in a process of  becoming thru absence
    words have an order or a lattice           only to be
destroyed         of their intentions      remembered just
as a claim to   interstitial kingdoms   like there’s
rooms that are  active only in           the demand
recollected       a photo of a photo      glare accretes
tomorrow a fire            destroys the rest  of the suburb
            tills a sorrow language      out of       silt, hardly
   shocked by what     our former names   cannot keep:
small testimonials     recovered from         borrowed books
            now owe us   the hollow of sleep  in lieu of a voice
a bus route outs           the crusted shell       you slept in
information picks up  again.            you  & i almost know
enough to leave          without        this       to consume you