I tway inth I tween
I treble unsound unseen
aluminumscrape
I have something here
caught in a crimp blood blister
tear of ink in pulp
I almost my breath
almost the iron railing
almost in the head
I don’t remember
before chasm rhythm quake
I only know now
I was always this
sway and titch and iron
curls off the lathe
I am a fall on floor
I inbend wrong not part of
now new pared-down hand
new in the paste pot
new in hot turns rip’d minutes
old scar chromium
a molten spasm
still as a mote in furnace
dead as someday sun
I am always tway
I titch you witherhanded
and you tuck away
time once I once some
other going-to-the-sun
wet wild limb’ry boy
still as patter’d mud
sans coulé en haut coulee
and I was not sick
I ran in ryegrass
I carried her from Brooklyn
rock to J train sleep
