I’ve been meaning to tell you,
I could sense you left my innerspace
last weekend, you burrowed into
the loamy soil, as a sitcom or
herring—the transitions stunk.
There’s been something wild here,
an urgency of bloodshot messes;
could Sundays be, again (perhaps)
against us in a foggy vacuum,
silt & buttresses of limbs,
all the elms coveting us?
You, yes, everywhere in my life,
all of you we are
somewhere everywhere.
I’m this Dostoevsky Idiot in the world,
breadly & bold, got to a gunnery
& Norway.
Don’t go anywhere
you’re not supposed to go.
Wonder what happened in that snap
of time, tiny spider, your scrap metal
child inside?