The moon's left its dents in all of us.
You say you belong on the vision-quest too
falling in place, focused on the arena
and phantasies of Rome in flames—
time for twittering against the grain,
no one to take note of the camphor
spinning the toy submarine in the bath,
fizzling quanta as if the big Bang hadn't been divvied,
its detritus cycling through us—filters
for the machines growing around us,
glowing as we plugged them,
new mirrors to mother us, tame us
in keeping us shaving—hanging on
to the proprieties of being us,
parking and delivery, staid coordinates.
Loveliness failed after the nth temper
evacuated all we rehearsed, raw this, raw that
touched me, leaving projections backing up,
dreams slow to wash up wasted mornings,
waiting, then leaving behind the fits believed in.
