A touch on the audio screen and one
harsh word brings the whole evening
crashing down. I've been on edge,
you've been on edge, she's been
on edge – conjugation of inevitable
verb. The mystery of the lost meter,
to be rendered moot when the sea
percolates up through the limestone
and erases all our mistakes. Both
entrances blocked. Drive trains.
The natural posture is upright. Natural
position. Problem of the "natural." I toss
and turn, every night, to get you closer.
We run, where in sunlight or rain,
to stand still. This damned—another—
book. Pieces, bite. Shards. How do
"ew" vowels evolve: my father pronounced
it "strown"? Towards the end, he
couldn't live in comfort, slept propped
up with a finger on the morphine trigger.
The dream of great icicles fallen, smashed
on the sidewalk. Not on her, impaling
or crushing, but she herself shattered.
The Church retreating, the license
plates "Christian." This night suspends
water, hums with stone. I see only
from machines. Signs at the foot
of Trümmelbachfälle, the fatal
dangers of drinking one's water
too cold. Ammonia through the ceiling.