what is mine is gilded and scaling the erosion
of Soho’d fragmentation; disoriented, my arm
linked with another universe as “walking shoes”
aim to quash the quiver that plagued my lips
when nothing pointed nowhere and I
was alone in a basement that was so crowded, I
could not hear the sweat that blistered
my hips when I believed, inaccurately, that
all things always pointed home
and Western Union packaged kind eyes.

28 tracks