A little toughness, a little more aggression in the lunch line, visionary tax evasion, then white guilt run amok. Can we predict them backwards out of being? Rain riding in like the death of Fareless Square, him standing by the statue of Man with Umbrella, she striding past a non-anatomical bronze otter commissioned in Fiscal Year 1987. On the train he washes over her. A national brand of sham­poo, generic zinc-based version, but memory is olfac­tion and difficult to dislodge. Have we really given up on a deter­mina­tion of the good? Before a fact congeals in a crowd’s ear, let’s make our meetings longer-lasting. Let’s make our last meeting last the longest.

There was a pattern in the clouds, in the way they broke up into prefectures. Waiting on the porch for the heat index while these men in their Chacos, these careful salt-&-pepper Templetons. Or two thick-middled genders pausing on a morning jog or the ginger-bearded man beneath a blue baseball cap. His enormous calves. We said the clouds were burning off because, my God, one has to say something! and they were. A crow duet atop a fencepost. A white-haired couple sharing a muffin. One could dial back a century and call it quits, except: too many cats, too much animus among songbirds. Plus this thumb writ­ing epidemic and the worst traf­fic gesture by far remains the left-hand turn across a crosswalk. In terms of fatalities there was a pattern but we couldn’t discern it, isn’t that often the case?  Let the heat get off its high horse, I won’t crane my neck to be seen. Maybe one notices a puzzle the moment its too late to solve. Maybe one just waits this one out.

No high-speed cortège comes tearing through town. Elementary school speeds only. She at the dual glass panes weatherproofed above the sink. What is beauty but a two-tone El Camino idling at a three-way stop sign, rims still spinning? After having made offerings of coffee, after having Gone the Extra Mile. She standing at the screen earlier counting out her refund money I’ve done nothing wrong to nobody (anybody) and I have pic­tures to prove it. Gods in your sheet metal, goddesses wrapped in your non-load-bearing skins. The Parade Permit having been filed three months in advance meanwhile you’ve got this culture of the long, holy adoles­cence stretching out beneath the watchful eye of

We skipped deadlines / slept / separately / and late. Why (and only now) / note the format of Competitive Bidding / in TriMet construction as in / love? Never learned to / penetrate the / (that word) / flummery / of smear campaigns / all politics is (loco) / a man in a hooded sweatshirt / bored with / All of This / should be better / his (checklist) / Pounding up the steps of the / Courthouse / olive green yoga pants (abandoned) / in the hamper / yet / another Tom Petty soundtrack / hot beverage aficionado / it’s copasetic, dude / dude / seriously dude / Tom Petty? / he’s been inside of (us) / our whole / lives / though stone-washed jeans have come / and gone / (still) stalled in / committee / what were you (expecting) the / Mercy of a Phone / Call / thanks / that’s (helpful) / what I / miss most / is / the stupid stuff

A field, a fen, a promontory, a peak. The thing about need is it operates by zone. At first a toe-dip, quick trip to the strip mall strip club, then the tell-tale stillness in the kitchenette. Sing, cuckoo, you little winger. Dull stuff of paper­work and transfer signatures, tunneling our own disaster. I’ve grown taller than my tremor. It’s no surprise this council avoids what it’s in awe of: lean boys discovered in the yard. Dirty Pretty Words. A culture of pity aimed inward like a breath. She may be the cut-rate matron of recidivists, but this day was entrusted to me and I (at least) will not fail whomever.