historian: this body of work to be studied

Or it can be something else entirely.

As the key sticks I can't write, the story
			i'm lacking a train route

and just filling out the questionnaire /

in the yoga class, breathing Ardha Padmasana,

   				      & tell me how

I'm going to breathe with no    head?
label the provinces:
a bee once stung me on the nipple there

In a pink nightie and dark velvet smock

Go like this, and you'll see its little nose

and trimmed wings
I had three names picked out –

and a pyre, much more poetic

do you belong here. turn toward the asteroid belt
Who knows what stirs behind the small splinters
your head like a mixing bowl

it looks nothing like you
                                       its a       kind of fish icecream. big in

        nonfood circles.
I hear the nurses calling

two more harpsichordists quarantined.

Sometimes, not enough,
There's a taste,	—.    –.		a taste of paint.
white paint is medicine.

I didn't mean to be an artwork.
Pull out a folded handkerchief

It's always the edges that get blurry.

Barthes' kleenex box

visitors will bring food and gifts

an accent on elocution lip-reading

when the camera breaks down, smile and reshape.
In a forest of blue trees it's easy to feel lost.