A virulent golden spring
roars outside louder
than I can know when
my legs are cramped from
laying in this damp
bed day and night I walk
through a door and that
door is time
how suddenly I am no one
yet my back is still fucked
all things blown across a field
of static into un-readable ambiguity

I think obsessively about
a job. Sleep leaves me.
For the eighth time I have
not really answered the
committee’s question
the right job might
give me—

wanting the job is only
wanting to be moored to
the World or floating
like a naked woman
inside a giant wreath
the winds at each
meridian holding her
aloft a fantasy of body
as World open and
unwounded

Naïve to want
the world so fiercely
as it’s dismantled—
affection for strangers’
accents heard in passing

in the before
or the gum and
peeling varnish
of tables we hid under as
children or the acrylic
and wool of other people’s
sweaters unraveling impersonally
now in landfills
to want
this World of discourse
and dust and shit
is a sin
but the earliest remembered
feeling is that want of
the world the presence of something/
anything that would
make it normal
to live