Hour 1

my eyelashes froze on the forest's edge;
i don't recall the order of events
adrift in furrowed streaks, the snow had left
to crop the fire in framing through my hands

and if i were alone there would be nothing on the walls
there never was a response,
i picture them in a van reading aloud,
hanging words and wheeling them hushed
across the spaces above our heads
so each deviation extends past a carton
or through serviette racks

bottle misery
where trucks are distant bells in fog
the love conspiracy in wooded veil each endless walk

'The swing's one push away from flight.'
It's easy to kill flies in an all white room,
at least until you go blind
and strip the skin from your palms
to blot every streak and mirage
and pretend that you're lost in thought so cars will turn
two rain path air back covers
fingertip staring plus nine precursor pm searchrope
expecting that from those cels, the rubbings will brush aside
to descale a saturated lost clarity
with three or four rows of teeth

it's a mystery
the second cloth diffusing pause
the love conspiracy sealing every finger off
(there's enough anthemic pandemic poisoning wells for that)

my eyelashes froze on the forest's edge;
i don't recall the order of events
adrift in furrowed streaks, the snow had left
to crop the fire in framing through my hands