A thought, or, a fatal error

 

has the gentleman standing in the doorway, making use

of the pinkie stuck still in his nose to once and for all

cancel the fourth and last postal service. What is

wrong about the delivery today? A thought, or, the act

of sun-gazing over the glittery green, waiting

for the aureate making of numerals, a further lucidity.

Or a line he cares so much about. So much

repetition, so much nectarine the insects writhe

instead inside the mail box. A thought,

never mind the bluish pain of thinking

as such is the bride of September afternoon,

or, ideas driving the good news back into wreck again.

Ink, or, the hand’s decision to turn the key in the ignition.

Who is coming? When a thought arrives, is delivered,

the art of return is returned, the mossy silvereyes

through the shrubbery repeat the panic, the fatal vomit

creeping in, leaving him with two choices on his palm.

 

A thought, or, a fatal error?

 

The line placid, splitting. The Lopez porch swing

hasn’t m