Two years ago
invented days worked themselves into the timekeeper’s calculations
The character, true or false
The brilliance of coding every sound began to seem dunderheadedness
The sentiment to still believe a sweater might forestall impoverishment
Merry season on a Wednesday, celebrate the true faith on a Friday
The universe with its bland mocha noise is telling science only this:
Peak. I am your god.
Trough. I loathe you.
Peak. I loathe your disobedience.
Trough. Your greed and your self-centeredness.
Peak. Valuing the devil’s gifts.
Trough. I make a gift to him of you.
Green sea-rocks written into the invoice as a message
Snow-melt from the ashy sky
O turn delighted eyes heavenward
the character thought about artists whose work seemed primitive
that watering can the gardener used to keep new-planted seeds
the care to polish furniture for guests
A faithful visitor cultivated
But all along it wants a true impulse to craft a narrative into false work
Fear, fear under the table and glory, glory through the window
The character did not pity false illness sufficiently
The character wanted true grudges
All you know by the end would instead excuse him
Traveling in a strange country and by spring confident in cargo
cargo from the sea voyage recovered with bloated things sulphur poisoned
out of a widening crack
the sky, the air around us is an ocean, and our breath mingles
(2017, Stephanie Foter)