XON (1955-70)

a tiny yellow
leaf follows my
grief & fall
or cold steps
that spring past
board of infancy,
plucking rank
of tenuous day.
foot(locker)
(loose)

bullseye, meat on
appropriate desk, with
blood smeared on
page in second
paragraph, with two
large clots in
third paragraph. how
fitting, this page!
cata(loge)d
(box)

am in a
symphony of eatable ink, closing off
kline & klein
in evening spray,
being inclined to
shave apparitions
of cobalt blue & hanging slashes of black.

time, straight out
of history, falls
onto us, as
we scrape another
corner & bleed
our best syllables
without connecting
words, being in that
cosmos of rattles minds.