Bruce Smith

I erased the heart-text and there was a wet spot, a bed, a minor chord
we spleened in [Philadelphia, mon amor], then a tiny purchase unflooded
in the storm, the sky applying itself [apolitically] while the scaffold was a cult                                          
that would bring down or overdo the material and the vision with a breathing.
I entered the ballad of new light hungry, not knowing how to butterfly the lamb.




I did my two-year bid and was released to the halfway house of regret where I wished

out the windows I wished were steamed with sex or season [sigh], I did sit ups

and thought of the year I was driving to derange things, to voodoo [you], to fly

speck all the regrets [you, sigh, me, hamartia]. Let the regrets be regrettable. Let them

be brick and explicit. Let the waste be wasteful, huge. Useless wet eyes.




Lie down if you’d like and shut your eyes, if it can’t be a trance let it be
dim, let the eclipse in the lids begin, the color shift to crypts of black
that seep a plasmic neon green at the borders that gives way to red-tinged
no longer things [blood umbras] that give way to dream: freefalling soldier,
starfish, fetus, otherwise darling, escaped intention, phoenix of our sleep.


Long lines for greater twang on the blue guitar.