Here it's only recall recalled—no fear
of that hope split-keying
me half-open.  I am stilled,
unfloodable, and hinging the days
on a mixed clink of hours and pills—
two at eight o'clock food then
one at ten then clutch in both 
hands sin that other pill
underneath my tongue will I
fall asleep without snagging
its angle, the dim red of it
unexplainable, how my face
split, two banks of a river
I should have been
floating.  Well if I am now, will I
still be able to leave its waters—
sleep but also its many ways that 
make unmaking, how a word 
of it makes world, to spite 
another world, its voices
create speakers, create its lives
and all of those who watch it.
But that's just recall, a sigh, at eight 
o'clock, two pills flub name to neme
at random, how its thought finds my way
to another.  Stranded, I stare
through places I really was, 
now empty. An intersection—
no one waits but me, a cafeteria 
no food.		Somewhere   my     on my desk    there’s this book—a long poem... "the modern love story" 
								wrote one critic, which

takes place in an apartment where a woman lived and died. Her lover forces himself to stay there, amongst her things, the outer reflection of an inner life wanting into, out of the prison of lifeless things. He writes this way, that want. He writes out.   
I want to write this room, at least read where I still can't face the mixed up and down of reals upon ruins of unnamable counterparts.  In this apartment where I keep trying to lead my life, I stare through the same snapshot on the wall: Father as a student, his face angled down to a book of the law he obeyed, defended, laid down: slightly blurred, I see him always slightly blurred, as if by chance (... la chance impure ?) I had placed the man at the limits of my vision.