berryman, you've never been much of a mentor, the way your words collide, a fisher's net of emotion.
your mouthfuls, are abstract, heavy socks, cotton in mouth.  it is like the way i lack fluidity, a disjoint here, a disjoint, disjointed, dreams, half awakenings.
i know your heart, or rather, the way the masking fluid, the weight cloth that puts out fires,
pins you by its corners, bubble of wet air underneath
a pink shower cloth.
there is a hungriness on the belly of a bathing baby,
i wish i could explain.

-

i know you.
there is a girl who is late for the experiment, so the science will go on without her, and i'm afraid that there is nothing left,
but chalkboards, nostalgic green things with slow dust, wooden desks.
sometimes i can't remember if i am again manufacturing my childhood
for more sunlit country days,
prim and proper teachers.
the classrooms are always empty so you'd never know
if electricity ever existed
and ruined our drifting days.

there is a song i've been meaning to sing,
but i want badly,
to touch the concrete, the gravelly unevenness
of courtyards, as if in the painful patterning, the afternoon
would stay with me,
imprint the steady gathered warmth,
so i'd remember what it was like, to hold summer on my skin