"Day 5.
A metaphor for justice came to us and said what?
What did it say?
It was hard, and then a tone or pressing rose inside the mind
and doubled it.
Undocumented love came back.
We had not checked our phone.
The end of racism not near, banks with new toys
selling triple debt and greed, no end of fury over this.
The end of our undoing cannot see.
In brief grief woods, the many colors
like a 12-tone scale of life destroyed in undertow,
detached.
The secret figure came to us and said,
someday, a people in post people.
Those who had energy blocked the road.
Some got mad over this, sure.
Red roses letters overwhelmed by suffering,
by news of killed workers, overwhelmed by children,
by human cruelty, holding a gun to get her pamphlet printed.
My wife of the decomposers has tubes on her skin,
a metaphor for getting by.
A calm life, hypnogymnia, [? rubes, ?]
and gold ears listening in thin woods,
an undercommons in the tree."
And this is toward the end, very end of the sequence.
"Day 23.
The decomposing wife rests in my trance.
Stateless state and metaphor tries not to despair.
The semester winds down.
The usual holiday virus finds a host
in bodies fed by sugars and salts and bourbon and slices
of oranges, carols from old northern forests.
It was a dark forest.
Each bell was plagued by nothingness.
Ringing was brought along by doubt and magic.
I was taking the boy outside to see ruffled double things
along the ground.
We were beside the spirit world in this mild winter.
Zizek, Microsoft won't let me paste Vs on his Garamond Zs,
says that we're not supposed to get comfort from nature.
And I don't get comfort from nature.
But other lives of leaves and wood and lobes
distribute everything, a cinnamon revolt,
the spirits bringing a less grief stricken day,
the bumpy under common thing.
If you just walk along with a child looking at mute colors,
not giving up, spice or dramatic ocher or a soft after,
even where the dream is momentarily sundered."