THREE FROM THE TANGLE

1
Static pressure on the plenum—
No common touch.

Obliquities—
an unmollified and withered penumbra

A stippled darkness aspiring to constellar coherence
—readily comprehended
but difficult to remember

2
The sharp tilt of the wall
an appendage depleted
by catastrophe

a facade with a specter of partitions
built out of a flutter

something helpless and ordinary
become a tantrum of speculation

3
A stony divot or a nest?
Always the choice.

You can sit in the mud.
You can sleep in the mud.

But the rains never came.