Andrew Zawacki

Grayscale breath on a fluid field, with lo-fi rainpatter—petrol blue—, a 60-watt sun uns -crewed from the woebegone sky: rip- rap & coal slurries, dragline & loess, what phosphor -us is a semaphore for, silklike in its acoustic shadows louver away, or stay when I move: figures astray from the mercury dark—shatterproofless, shutterproofless, image noise stressing each contour to strass— as if the margins were swarming with centers, or cinders —"Ecchoes to the Eye" — or Cinderella's slipper blown of poly- vinyl butyral & laminated glass

This is not a waiting room for souls. It is modern, totally unwindowed. The sun threw a ray away, lost two rays it’s raining here in the room. On the beach it looks very evening already, money removed from the world: if one travels somewhere and back again, one is always different—we are not separated on the journey. My mouth keeps spr- inging open. Everything does not have to have a limit : varnish out, dooryear—winter ice is caught in winter, I plunged myself but not under. (I can’t pull it out of my head, can I.) Godthrough: a word with a star tied around it, it has to hit someone. Was such a storm the trees fell over, there was a storm against. I have got a lot more songs in my mouth: Shudderhorror. Souldoll. Shiverbeard, is there much enough snow? is that supposed to be lakes for the chessmen have reached the bank? Mother shakes the little tree. Otherwise the darkness will read it and will remain dark forever. A dream falls off, a little shirt— the sky is red. And blue. How do the bones get into my foot? Ung-Ung-train, Puff-Puff train afraided me away. No everything does not have a limit: I saw that I lived here. That there is a spider in the window here. That there is a mirror here. Twinslight, the tongue, the garden flowers painted —almostyou: to walk where it is very dark and the small bell is already hanging in the air—

Begins in interruption: an ambulance bell at the center of sleep, the room tilts sideways, furniture slides, an octet of amber blue verres à liqueur, one with a cut at the lip, clatters as a quaalude light in tatters mattes the curtains ormolu: I miss you is what I want to say like a rocket stocked from the Reagan years, its radar gone haywire, wiring fried but live inside a bunker of some private Soviet Union you & I —