all of language is braille

I don’t know what’s on the other side of that pine fence
but whatever it is it is my neighbour

the centuries like stumps in a storm concede nothing

the difference between the glacialweight of a lockjaw solitude
and a tender sociability has something to do with steam irons

crippled van goghs begging nickels of shined shoes of the city millipede, hustling

a poem is a cluster of nerves, a borrowed
                         fingertip and a damp beach                         

they gave him a hero’s welcome, which is to say
             they said nothing of his inevitable decline

like teflon emptied of sirloins and just

the smeared fat beads reminiscing, these modern syllables struggle to mean                  

what privilege it is to now read nothing poems

I go, you stay, two moons

Vivace                       waiting in line at the supermarket, all this broken beef
                                             in all this supermarket line at the beef, broken
                                                          all this line at the supermarket this line in
                                                                      the super market all this broken beef, waiting

Kevin Heslop