I toss my stencils to the neon fire and begin to build, stacking obsidian dust,

a text that betrays the shape of a tone, a semblance of pitch, the opposite of rubbing down                                  onto a headstone.

The mirage of white dawn on treated black,                                  wavering then solid states,

hovering over the exact spot where the sun                                  strikes a songbook in tablets. Wandering the edge of a crypt of lines and having to carry them all back (still unseen).

Before every reading I was asked to quietly rebuild the field of composition (wood and thin wire)                                  but always in a public corner the audience was allowed that tiny bit of footing

before demanding my disappearance, restricted to the few syllables that I could float                                  through the door.

More of a crook in the mouth, the sweep of the tongue that floods the canal,

the water was a single cursive crossed out line.

Keeping language lit and locked up, bronzed or betraying its wear pattern,                                  a galaxy spiked with mist, cold tin type                        clouded red with black.

                                 I fashion the gate toward one arm of dystopia,                                  the concrete index sold off as bits of poetry.

A system bent on interpretive orchestration, the stacking and rubble of debris,                                  then scoring its outline.

All slivers angle toward the beloved, sparking the end                                  of the tip of the night,

the light never quite settles.

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