Lines, Phases, Corruptions 

One cannot be a single person.

One desires inert hands. 

Certain items are forgotten. 			

One can study, apply the formulas. 

Then forgetting. 

The hills reminds me 

of your blank gaze.

Certain items are forgotten. 

Virgins, order, the small frame 

of judgement. 

My critical writing always evades me. 

I do not want to be a bracket. 

I want to be forgotten. 

Glass to glass, the blankness of holding, 

firm, firming. 

A door opens only on its hinges. 

How would one render 

what does not yet exist? A rock garden in ink?

Eat the carved face each day, 

still forget. 

I scale the mountain. 

I ache. 

“Ache” and “mountain” are items forgotten. 

Hands, even. 

Hands ache. 

Flexing keenly away,

a thought, a quiver,

from the Greek [	], for— 

shard of glass, little 

glint, 

little see, 	

little cut, 	

little hmm, 

even.