you are well-seated in time, and I slide.
Though my mom could see the pavement through
the car floor
I missed it all:
you are well-seated in time, and I
slide.
But can we be? Earth grasps
and the slick city streets grease our souls
So how are you well-seated?
With the heavy hands of industry on your back
you slip through and out the other side
sinking into the waiting arms of Earth, yet
ungreased, and I
slide by.

Whoever heard of Stalingrad? the Redcoats, and
apartheid, and who ever cared
or noticed past a glimpse of the U.S.S.R.
(God knows who they are)
"The echo boom" sounds cold, like
MTV and limewire, and I shudder at their touch
(like empty metal corridors) shiver at their oily stain
But can we be? Earth's grasp marks my shirts
and I cannot turn with open hands
to burrow deep into its depth, for the city streets
slick my soul, and I sleep on (her) heater and windowcurtain
with the wind screaming outside
mostly alone.

Sweet slow purity, some things there are only words for
to tease them from your insistent, persistent stare
(to open to your giving)
You could be an angel, not celestial but und
ergro
und
and take lye to my
suffocating skin
and when I bleed take me with you
make me sound.