The ridge is trampled by the disasters
          spinning their curve
          and ambergris
          her hand in a bun
They mark time on the ridge
The cemetery there is a civilisation
         entire
         but its traces and glimmers
         beckon us to board a small plane
          with cousins / cats / commuters
The traces and glimmers
         being raised to graves
         on wobbly ladders
         wobble
Bouquets in hand we land

I discover nothing
Among the blocs I was exposed to pu-erh
At the museum of broken relationships
         I remembered the steepness of the capital
         and the wigs on the mannequins
         kissing through the slot
         and decided to stay

Duration unfurls
Just beyond perimeter
          the assumption takes position

Where do I even begin?
We stopped at the site

The school of minnows gray volcanoes
         the text of light moth light
         the form beyond forms
At the sight of what dishevels itself and is blond
           it’s a stretch but
Their emergence is undecidable

The gods were starving since they buried the civilisation
         and so had no incense fumes to eat
         only bouquets
         left by their ghosts

The civilisation though dead draws lines between
         categories which assume multidirectional affect
         and then mark exes on the line where revolution happens
But what can we hear on these wobbly ladders?
The wind minnows / volcanoes / strewn light
The wings of the plane kiss through the slot
          where we sit while we sleep

What could be gesticulating in this sentence?
We could hunt referents until the gestures take over
Which they will
Rimbaud called it Illuminations
          because it was written at noon
The twist on the automatism preached
          was the investigation offered by no shadows
         rather than the surrendering to the omnipotence of shadows

The dispersal
         disheveling itself is better than its blondness
The conquest writes
          we breathe in incense with which
          the foreigners pollute the freedom of the air
The conquest’s name was Loving Strewn
Barges burning on the water

When we try to put things back together
          we only see perplexing thresholds
         sum / sweet flag / white winter / black winter
         the strange coup on the ridge
          the scope we attended for four zones
         as tramps
Museums
         weights among the organ blossoms

Where I begins
         a tower
That towering word
         her halt in a bun

So you scented the dove and sent it flying over dinner
Great
         your essence was excelling
         it smelled so sweet
         but there was nothing to eat
This is what they call oasis wine
It indexes an immensity we can only feel a little of
Porous calamus

If the gods knocked on your door while you were praying
          you wouldn’t answer
Who would?
Something that you thought was yours would surely be taken
For example
          your cousin’s unfurling

 A strange invisible perfume hits the sense of the adjacent wharfs
The cats and commuters emerge from a steeped tea
         with exes for eyes
         but living

Though
in brokenness

Asters un
         count
We cite those integers
        bunny

Our loneliness will be assumed
We add it to the space around us

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