Our contact with the world is as direct in vague thought as it is in any thought.
—Timothy Williamson

Accumulated delicacies
and laid at every table

emergency numbers, phenylethylamine
or whatever brings a fingertip into focus

fuzz like a ghost
you’re maybe looking for

the last face abandoned
to create nothing out of something

we only dance and moan.

Prospecting for air

or cheap memories of you
this unprotected death

preceded by its shadow
as if you didn’t know

its hour passed hours ago
wrapped up in inventories

it sank into morning
on my agenda of expulsions

whose taste has been licensed
bright houses drawn

confirmed reports of my breath
this fire eats fire

a future in which my fears are true