Matt Flores

 To see the steps

                                                move somewhat back

to time on its bedded seams. it means where to stay supposedly

in being with the plan’s supposed to be. i am and i’ve been

thinking formulas towards the balm—the hard do not and need

to walk. awhile – having is thought’s supposition in rain.

anything for something inside the hide of bark. behind for

just a little break. ask at least for a crack of branch, a welt

of dew to chew. and I wanted you like that—inside flowers

casked in concrete – the conviction like gender calls to

surface hot as desert-sun. i respond as bellflower on columns

of its own sway, yawning dreams. the connections to past callings

back for lovers, catharsis as private world of genocide accented in parts

brought with it the bow of competition, in love wracked scents.

units of prescience per the verse. throat’s schism invocation sent

inside the waking up unlike heat.

Midway

Indeed, there was an invasion. A wore out home and murder.

The somber trials in rural Texas whet yearning. Yearly loss that

hears

submission as cows and alcoholics now that the walls are

overlooking.

Two pews imbue studiousness as groups of wires. Don’t proceed

so no one else can overhear it as warning – clawing of spatial

others’ oil inheritances craning passively past ranches, overcast

convections – each meddling with unremarkable tools.

That edge above anticipation says bestial experiences instructs

a family to return to trees. White flowers’ southern graze. Through

teachers that led out so many wishes to project endearment

with ambitions, complete the errands. Say my mother’s name

in an emergence of rooms with chords, doors, a still life

that dopplers fruit of questions asked. Why is it in

amicable threads, going down as concertina sleeplessness bracing.

Desk

Within certain spaces Fanon still reaches for the left drawer. Lull from a cigarette

establishes goals outside the opaque, full on the shelf he is an island. Drenched

in lamina. Being soon sequins itself on the arm of an absolute self. His body turns

to me, whole looks within. This schema I am curious about as the life I live in

deserts and planes. We forget the suspects inside movements; how does one

mourn on this white winter’s day? My desk with fingernail imprints I can’t

remember placing. Shimmering together an idea that was never mine to begin

with. It’s the moon encircled below my reach through the edges, that this clarity

of revolution is deserted for a seat at the table.