On the towpath to eternal life I just can’t
genially gesture at assumed outlines
imagined as having been left alone to bend
and surface saying really something in the air
petty as grievances swept I soon remembered 
never again would votes be tallied by hand
customer service be king at this hotel
I made my hand to ape the shadow of a gun
a mechanical bull so unlike any real
steer afraid of sun glare cowers half-hidden
in hollows sounding sometime nostrils
horns from lungs large luggage be fashioned
preserved unknown you not listening how
anyway to word solo deep down the well
feathers taste when you suck at torn jacket
sleeve faint marks where phone rode brick
late months buy this poetry American life 
everyone extra familiar too thirsts for stiff rope
sex scandal revenge Finland summer coast forsworn
so pure sex steps take less still less they startle
no more buzz lips tickle knees forever fevered 
is it the house trees the large view beyond 
persons famous he casts as he who shuns love
I took on more causes to refute serial habits
being outside I struck to sleep a tower’s mossy butt
big trees between towpath and canal no more barges
worn yellow gravel path soft sponge runs in sock
it was the world and not me it was the world
that moved arrow fast blown turning its cold seam 
it was the world surface slick diffusing starlight
and not me wrapped in warm perpetual fall
low great heavy cotton ball stone-colored clouds
it was the world it was the world it is there 
I walk with twilight on and on far roll on marble on
sky murk on low clouds on legs clap past on ways