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Out the Body There Are Planned Things

for Fanny Howe

No One is yet there: the past is empty
Of confidence under oblivion;
The one is unlivable.
The apartment is not there. The window is not there�myself�
But for you they are loud when near.

I don't believe the sidewalk is far from the lake today
When I can not lead the dirt from it by instinct.
No, dirt. Yes, instinct.
Dayrun of knowledge, matter dies in the future.
The asphalt is in this life
Answering don't I believe you?


You know the country dies with cold infertility
Like repositioned concrete in the park at night's beginning.
At the new New York Sane Person Center,
The doors are whole, singular cats are still in the attic,
Clunky refrigerators fold in. The soul you can not throw in your limb absence.
And did not, leaving to the other side, my heart straight with traffic,
At not having been behind so long, and not yet growing old.
We didn't run off the beach two hundred hours before.
Then I feel how not to anger an animal unlike you;
Now I'd have tossed two.


Yes the last happy occasion
Is the last stolen thing
Was the third as the forth
Beginning with many dark lakes.

Blind these occasions as wed minutes
Of proxy, yes blockage
Comes from bodily distance or conclusion.

No cold anti-breath
Or red crumbling, nor collect
Of Mars, from silence to anyone
Is to go:

So the smallest whimper went
Without an inclusion of touch
Slowly given!

This is the first.
An exit of stolen things.


The splitable earth
Hasn't whole roots
Off the private concrete. We land

Out of a square
Later gathered and made whole by
This smaller inconsistent arrangement

A skeleton gathers down that lost path
And 'visible forgetting'
Alone hasn't wholeness.

Immortality is gaining
Slower than matter, it doesn't appear
From you, then a tasteless curse

Can not deplete divisibility,
Black lakes, say. Yellow, then
Not rain.


Brother Riches, farewell from my glade
None which highers needn't paint open

Out the absence of kindness and nurturers
Of the purposefully created

The wind of every body
Clocks the odds there isn't a because, because


Most lawns give into the brightness of an owner
It isn't there you need to come without surfaces
Touch cold tolerably black
Every sport must rise, an undeveloped heart
Unlike a solitary mammal
Won't fall from the floor. Then awake
Isn't the contained matter of failure
Where she receives no sign
To take down the unwritten record
Feet from the window, from heaven without meat.


Once was a day taken together:
To bury in fifty-one ounces of celery skin
Pull out a fire and dry the blinds.
You met with an enemy without That's not what I need!
Debt and curses we all thought.
Then You said the devil was the ocean
He was still and whispered
You need from life!
Celibacy expands in a few pains
After all is come but the bite


You don't wish my body but desire the extinguishing
Wild my water and receive enough
Infinity was disintegrated out of an expanse
From the wilderness where dying comes
An unrelated response, the river's
A giver. And you are not with
Yourself alone. The memory of faith
Was a letting go, ash and impractical,
When the oblivion enlarges but You


The gone are not practicing eerie
Distances from eager planets or closet radar.
Even lawns hold an owner's constancy.
How memory comes to it for a whimper:
Here! The tie to another century. Concrete me.
Mammals live before a darkened
Block on the head may ignite a solitary sense
Of it! You think, finally oblivion provides
Superior particles for intake less a day
Regards the moving as happenstance for horizontal occasions.
To take forth a lesson not required, landing gear.