From a Finished Basement

In our arteries and eyes, a hundred lightbulbs throb like drugs. The furnace: a permanent mishap. And up in the dusk, there is lucid debris— a conduit, a wire mask, a swastika of corn. Boy- and/or girl-small, we'll find some horizon, an intricate faking in which to lose way. Here we are, not speaking or dead. Here we are or dead. To what do we owe this forgetting not to kiss? Not that any given face is not afraid.