(for christine mcnair
what do we know, against
a sainted list
a crime of produce, power-station
, kids on bikes ride bridgework
why am I always crossed, in love
a saint no longer is
do they think out like a marigold
a line apart a line of clouds
fence-resting at the razors edge
a row of fish, through french doors
a cycle of slow, bleating hearts
& inadequate warnings
*
the blood of late summer, brown
an intricate of reds
that echo tourists, tourists, skis
through the songs up to the house
through charcoal to black
through bicycle push, shock-pink
rooted in coral, like trees
& some greenery, some flesh
the way to bridges, highways, breath
is never the same route twice
accumulating chairs, slow passage
of three days into many moons,
a complex multitude
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