The Sort of Thing

where the garbled tongue salad of street Martha

is the god-river coherence between soda buildings

when finally you look up, look up

like a purified foreshadowing except etched in the present

and reaching not beyond the present

so that when you read it it is an obvious surprise

which is also movie endings

in which the isolated chants of sandbox children

are found to have been the integral truth

so that when he appears

barefoot man on stairs

it is that he plays guitar

so that when I say my body is a pool of electric violet

it is that I saturate the earth with my tars

and absolutely nothing else is the case