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Does one not brood over
whatever mayhem comes
abducting coarsest sub
stitutes to the coming

of nearest Fact not yet
seen? Staked out—like
lingering fingers unstitching
one's coat, like touch's

nectar—this runaway love
having gone through every
horizon of one's heart,
spoiling the thus-and-so

of one's delirium with the
intent to shake the prairie
into unclear space, hobbling
along like a horse with a

broken leg, pushing through
pretending to progress neatly
without a devastating pinpoint,
like squashing squash blossoms.