Fucked up that the loved ones / all have to go and even more so / the way they have to do it—

360-degree Hieronymus-Bosch-panoramas of / Altamont Speedway at night lodged in the memory / worth more than a drawer full of rotten apples.

In the blue-aired seaman’s mission/ the TV is hotwired and pulsing./ In the blaze of the marquee outside/ her fist opens slowly/ like a fleshy pink flower

Language/ is not only made of words, it requires/ further presence or one of a white-/ blooming winter-head of snow.

The tin canister from an attic to a garage sell had no label, no title. "Five dollars," he said, / adding, "you take // your chances, five."