I name nothing
but the unwashed
hair of the afternoon
gathering its haze in brain
corners and also
the glass of milk that refills
itself when the
church bells digitize
the air. I have nothing
but attic. I do not have
a head on. I scoop
red currents from
the air to feed
whatever future comes
closest, comes without
glory, without fiat,
stumbling in on rag legs.
I could do this all night.