extraction:

        if this were possible

height: delicious
girth: rapture
otherwise: twitch and spark

Eden blows up in your face every time

an article of faith, of froth at the mouth, of firmament

this space that should be sympathetic

blows up

space: ecstatic
place: stasis
minimal hurrahs

as if a film separates me from all there is, a longing
for extraction subsumes me

suppose we were above this all
just for a moment
suppose
we had not forgotten our books
or we had not
lost our way
or anyone else's

suppose we were earnest or we had reached
the edge
suppose
this were an instant

culpability

suppose a strange music follows us
wherever we have been

So This

rien de rien, comprends?
at least, let's start with the self
       the other self

you talk about distance and
       (I have failed at this before)
I fumble, distinctly, and

Oh,      I am capable
of such immense smallness
       (the weight inside my hand)

decay

this ridiculous curve where

       ; the wait,
       ; inside—
       (my hand)

I grasp

I exaggerate my fear which is
nonetheless, real

       (quivering)
my hand

(I had a dream I was telling you about a dream you were in
and you were nonplussed)
        I exaggerate

I grasp

I am afraid—does someone
have to love more? I should resurrect—
where the hand wants smoothness
but does someone have to want?

I reach
where

the heart wants to be contained
       so why
does it leap so?