CentoQuest

courgettes, squash, marrow, carrots,
morsel, gobbet, trace of maple syrop, fat
On an onion tuft
Above her, new layers keep arriving;
when the zucchini
And whereto?
borders, journeys, archives, landscapes, reading, time, memory, myth, legend,
time slushes,
staining purple, a few tongues stained, too,
long pick necks pink curling
and blue in the crayfish-stream
The earth's crust shifting — may turn into fields
fire-roasted with some char remaining,
those strata of sour dead.

just dust.

Behold this compost!

lane, trail, stone fence, narrative, coffee

whatsoever to do with endeavoring

I am looking for the coffeeshop?

"My medium is prose," W.G. Sebald once declared

of "Song of Myself"

—and, compared to the other fountain pen I have,

trigger. Don't bother asking

And in the North, the Star —

Fed all vegetarian diet

This is why, you said,

in the house

THE BERRY PICKERS

I'm sorry I don't have more on hand 
that makes people wonder 
for the sake of our starving hearts, 
nature 
I picture whole streams, new currents, 
Any brick will do. 
Lacquered over 
... 

And yet, there's still so much to be done 
in the house 
If nothing else, it at least gives me a chance 
to think 

RUN

His father sits him down and recommends an anchor tattoo.
concomitant gaps, tie-offs and recommencements
or parchment paper is fine
I'm sorry I don't have more on hand
The coffee that's
drowned in the wake of our passing
Someone boiling a pot of water
without the expensive airfare,
Low in calories
The arc of stars
each in its different way an encounter with life's unresolved questions and mysteries,
not yet.
behold it well!
Keep your eyes on your beautiful dream.

on our way out.

& latch it to

our long dusk drives
Without anguish, quietly drifting.
— or do like my yiayia does
when the zucchini
(it's a long story)
suck, for the sake of our emptiness, the sweet
Senga Sengana Strawberries
I drink sunrise thoughts,
distances traveled
Over the fence —
A valid receipt is required for all returns.
So now we wait.

Like all braises,
I won't be held accountable
until every branch hangs sopping,
And I tip — drunken —
on the edge of an empty day.

We only use
(VERY IMPORTANT)
Her undecaying Cheer
BRENDAN,

Morning — only the seed of Noon —
with busted slats or hinges, strollers with
A crowning mirage or a question
I picture whole streams, new currents,
Idly, not sobbing, not scurrying,
the area of a map that encloses information about the map itself.
borders, journeys, archives, landscapes, reading, time, memory, myth, legend,
Some day, this beach too —
before everyone arrives.

This is to reassure his viewers, who continually fear his death.
like Kafka's essay
I see it,
Without anguish, quietly drifting.
A nameless Bird — a Stranger
I would rest a bit there or take a plane—
I won't be held accountable
The arc of stars
I picture whole streams, new currents,
galactic slurs even, luminescences, plasmas,
And yet, there's still so much to be done
playing for a moment in the air—even shapes
She tugs down the map to look and it flies up again like a windowshade.

A room, empty:
I'm sorry I don't have more on hand
Everything else remained the same.
Over the fence —
Cell phones, cellular tablets, and cellular
that's all that's left,
for my hair-line
And in the morning her trails are washed away.
into a valley, too thin a stream to cut its
nature
the exact moment
PASTA
If you want to transport yourself
With the spring, now