WALKING TO BIRMINGHAM
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
