Postlude

Aftermath, if we can
call it that, the meaning
of the blues

all persons’ loves of life
discerning the subject
and the subject

Patois, Patria, whatever—
I like to worry my desire
how it is pointed unpleasantly
at you, an untrained voice
with a country

Heroes return as food, apocalypse,
cars, comics, remix, the sound of a
pulling train. It’s little solace
heard from curiosity on Mars

Snow, I assure you
I owe you something
and worry the silence between us
the more you are silent

A stutter will fall, fail
I think there’ll be room for change
but it’s just flood lights turned on the oaks

Nerves end near their victim
My anomie like a public troll
revolts the sky and holds up
a drinking glass

Sunset, that is, there’s a river
I miss it thinking of sunset

Too many people, Ode
We cannot add the manifest

Admit the typing is over
and there’ll be a person
to show—you, with your
untrained voice still howling