the curious urge to do something

it’s not the end of the world;

too late for that

dead drops in the night, the crocus returns

trees (the art of care) have heard it all before;

the cry of foxes, and, man, inchoate

the curious urge to do something

stand upright, the order

rushing to the end,

he has no chill says the woman on the train

I think he’s moderated a little bit, he replies

She was content to just do it, he said

what was wrong with the old machines

no progress that doesn’t look like a monster

Or monsters; Or why we need aliens

proximity is war

the war inside; the violence of passivity

the calm of action; the patient is too large

.

You are angry about the book

about cosmopolitanism and Plutarch;

why is it so busy everywhere

this triangulation of the place the furthest away

impossible

not enough people; too few; too many

in order to decide you must own a pair of scissors

and God is in the rubbish

and good is in the paper hat

and from a certain height everything is holy;

some of it just looks bad

and ferns, alive, never alive, dead, never dead

well it’s all so fragile, the veil;

what kept you so long