Plumes from a Tearoom in Lebanon, New Jersey

For Julien Poirier

Eke out a few more bars for the jewels behind doors. Lutes and harps lay up to bolster language out from underneath. More absentmindedly walking the room, swishing about beyond argument or caging names. Calling out over the whole wet season, commercial speculations (cycles). I love that edge the wall makes — casino game-board green — my love comes bursting out the center of the glass (foiled) I abandon my trap in fragments. The grand terrace band (it’s waning) finale of synchronized dives, straight to my deepest forest overnight, this unfinished, uproarious music for vacuum.
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