No voice came to me

There was the theoretical obstruction

Of ‘the real’

This is so redundant

Looking closely, creation

Gave itself to a certain condition

Nothing

Not accountable

To blood’s earlier pattern

The true one

All red and blue

A forging of night

And satisfied, partially

How close you can get

To the center of things

The black stars

It matters

Where the seam points

I recognized futurity

In the tempo of my walking

Marching out and in line

Gazing, formative

The microscopic plumage

What is there to mark?

I’m tending

As chimes denote sleep

I’ll leave the thread to anyone

As I bask here

In frayed thought, aerobic

Upholding a collective

Personal history

Drawn in secret so you never really know

What figure you are dressing

Where the border is

If the stone you see is there

For you to stand on

Or for you to believe in

I can imagine this series of links

Nothing holding it together

Not thought

Your mother before you

And so unmistakable

Her perfect hair