Del Ray Cross
It only complicates matters this
one foot in front of the other. The
words, the words that keep coming.
Dipping a foot into. Turning another
corner. Choosing to. Ever or never
the same. Tying my shoe I notice something:
a crack, a blade, a black ant.
And then it’s gone, choosing movement,
its lack, dissipating, ahistorical. Every
thing is amnesia, another cloud
simile, whether you buttoned your jacket
or not. All things are elementary. Lie
in the middle of nowhere, in the dark,
a cold breeze, an ocean loud. Lying.
Every poem is about death. A
pounding, pulsating, clobbering earth,
electrical. This current, the science of it in you.