Layers, as if
they were a steadiness of days.

It snowed; I did errands at a desk.
White flurries out the window thickening; my tongue
tasted of the glue on envelopes.

On this day sunlight on red brick, bare trees,
nothing stirring in the icy air.

On this day blurs of color where
the heat of bodies meets the watery cold surface of the glass.

Made love, made curry, talked on the phone
to friends, listened to the one whose brother
died crying and thinking alternately,
like someone falling down and getting up
and running and falling down and getting up.

The object of this poem is not to annihila

To not annih

The object of this poem is to report a theft,
In progress, of everything
That is not these words
And their disposition on the page.

The object o f this poem is to report a theft,
In progres s, of everything that exists
That is not the se words
And their dis position on the page.

Th objec of his poe is t epor a theft
In rogres f ever hing at xists
Th is no ese w rds
And the r disp sit on o the pag

To score, to scar, to smear, to streak,
To smudge, to blur, to gouge, to scrape.

‘Action painting’, i.e.,
the painter gets to behave like time.

The typo would be ‘paining’.

(To abrade.)

Or to render time and stand outside
the horizontal rush of it, for a moment
To have the sensation of standing outside
the greenish rush of it.
Some vertical gesture then, the way that anger
or desire can rip a life apart,

Some wound of color.