Declutter, depersonalize,
let’s snorkel down. Terrific view.    
I saw you from across a flotilla  

marbling your hands  

like tracks to a timetable, no touching...

you be a woman I'll be a man.  

The simple complex of entire atonement —  

touch television — now proceeding normally  

the mercury-brimmed scree  

insubstantial in its unexpectedness  

daybreak like absentia we leave before asking why there’s a handful of the lily, too weak for real pain evaporating into the leg  

— no touching of the hair or face pumping like a fountain

                                          a dangerous, frisky slither  

on the train to a continuum;

tv ghosts retaliate against / falling or falling out  

in daylight and programming on a sheer precipice.