There is a spike
in the air
a distant thrum
you call singing
and how many nights
this giganto, torn
tuned, I wonder if
you hear me
I mean I talk
to myself through you
hectoring air
you're out there
tonight and so am I
for as long as
I remember
I talk to the air
what is it
to be tough
what ever
do you mean
how mistaken
can I be, how
did I miss it
as I do entirely
and admit very
well then
I know nothing
of the world
can see it now
can really see
there is a spike
a distant thrum
to the empty
o'clock autumn litter
it's ominous, gratuitous
the asphalt quality
these feelings
it's Sunday in deep space
and in the breeze
scatters, felt presences
behind the hole
in the day, sparks
ominous spike
I've not been here
before, my voice is
looking for a door
this offing light
reaching into maw
what does it mean
to enter that room
the last time
I remembered it
an un gathering
every piece of
open sky into it
the deep chill
inventing, and
is it comfort
the cold returning
now clear and
crystalline cold
I standing
feet on the ground
I frozen and
I can feel it
to meet incumbent
death we carry
within us a body
frozen ground
what does it mean
to be tough
or to write a poem
I mean the whole
vortex of home
buckling inside
a deep sea whine
flash lightning
birth storms
weather of pale
blinding life