by Bill Rasmowicz
Not everything dreams.
By the time the arsenal is built, it is expired.
Someone is always seeking an ethos to bleed.
Nausea occurs even via placebo.
In this life, you must have the tenacity of a tic
with mammoth tusks.
Still, a leaf grazing the pavement mimics
a door creaking open. Eventually, the mystery
of being alone consumes itself.
There are no other eras.
Filed away as memory, memory dissipates
into atmosphere. Then why shouldn’t speech
from one latitude to another,
appropriate the muscularity of clouds?
What throbs in the bushes is not a bird,
but bird-like, neither gravity nor mystique.
Something pulls us so,
and closer to admiration for the tirelessness
of weeds, for the falling world.
Dust of a Dessicated Horse