An incompleteness ago:
my fingers and turpentine nails,
laser hairs standing cold.
The market of twilight,
horse left on the monument,
six legs, one raised as a rifle,
his man like an apple in a barn.
Red on red on red on red.
An incompleteness ago:
a mint melting in the bath, a mint
in pubic hairs and fingered dust,
a mint of dimes, pennies, nickels.
A quarter a quarter a quarter - call it
an incompleteness ago, a baby almost ate
a banana. Small spoons. Small spoons, small
incompletenesses ago.
The sinks are still buildings,
the counter a revolution,
the gorillas in the kitchen,
the coal train - an incomplete
the bruised boy - an incomplete
the candy shop - an incomplete
the tractor trails - an incomplete, no
incompleteness ago. No grief ago.
No moons ago, no alone ago,
no tires ago, no buzzard pond ago,
no dream ago, no Freud ago,
no pickled vans ago, no cherry ago,
no pits, no canyons, no shaved rocks
of ice from an incompleteness ago.
No red no red no red no
water for boil, no bottle,
no bottle for punch.
No gum. No shoe.
No shoe detective for my life.
No narrative. No born,
lived then died.
No tomb, no ash, no clay.
No bones, no dice
no smoke, no fire. No ants
on the way to mango.
No incompleteness.
No raincoat for the rat-ta-ta,
a raincoat ago. A dog ago.
A hat ago. A love ago. A week ago
there was only no.
No gas. No trucks, only tunnels.
Only pavement. No food, only smell.
No song in my voice.
No voice.