These next poems are from a new manuscript too.
The whole manuscript, the book, is a series of letters.
Oh, and the book's tentatively called Fixing to Cross.
Begin message from L, subject.
It's not the past that concerns me.
It's not the can't.
It's not the choice you didn't leave.
It was night, and the new of me, and the new of me,
it was night, but the sound of me, and the jump of the chest.
It's not the tank of me, but the rest and jump the car.
It's not the perform, the blink of holding,
but the crisp of teeth, the agent,
the weight of urgent dead, the throat of throat,
the cream, the doornail, the take your eyes, take your eyes,
recruit the star, the crisp of teeth, the fish of rescue,
counter to claim a shove of loss, my whale, my sea.
Date, March 24th, 4:50:01 PM.
To S.
The tank of me a manhunt, and a minute to shave my head.
The alarm shut, the piano and the exhausted stare,
the stamina of the military seat, the intimidated dead.
So take a seat.
It took six months of interrogation, running amok.
It took an even greater fugitive to get us
to this point, someone to put her arms on the line, someone
to heaven the intention of phantoms.
You helped us so much with the chance of permanent regret,
the loss of impossible life.
I regret the finance, the vagrancy, the solo
and the tragic life of appalling loss.
Where is our lead?
Where are the eyes of a simple gift?
If you are clear, you are mistaken for a rancid lie.
If the track, the soldier, the dirt of junk.
It's not the past that concerns me, it's not the can't.
It's not the choice you didn't leave.
It was night.
It's not the past, the new of me, the new of love.
It was the night, the sound of chant, the jump, the chest.
It's not the tank, the breast, the brew that jumps the car.
It's not the form, the blink, the crisp of teeth,
the agent, the weight of urgent dead, the throat of throat,
the cream adore, the take your eye,
take your star, the crisp of teeth, the fish of rescue,
account to claim, a shelf of loss, my whale, my sea.