Are these the strings that pull my weight
in pears; are they the cold left outside to fend for itself.
Are these the daughters of the revolution.
At the party we wander about, actually aimless.
There's no garden. There's a miniscule revolution
in the back corner, like a mousehole.
I had asked about the edge of gravity, where it stops exactly,
or releases a body. There must be a line
straight or not. Little flickings off into space.
Was the invitation in red? I reserved our names in their book.
The allotted space and time were small.
We had this romance of animals, we cared about
the words used to describe our actions
like nobody move.
Takes pictures of files
and files them. Does this information
resemble your info? Destroys
homes and buries them.
Memory and everything, chrysanthemum,
daydream, nightlight, fixation.
Rudimentary signs of loss
parade the grotesque.
Does this inflammation
resemble you? Fire climbs,
wants my hair for its know-how.