Andrea Brady

Afar is a trance of clarity, a wished elongation of the will
to bear the danger forward in froth.  Scent becomes inorganic
tossing itself upward like ground seed, a carriage posture
falling lengthwise, blessed for its image-trigger; the object crystallizes
in tears into a centerpiece.   Aflame the star of her
soft scent and pink riven skin circling farther from the boreal lights,
tweaked once there or after dinner in the ineptitude of unease,
I am rescued by thinking it permanently vanished and truss
it for its stone shelf.  Dunce in a preserve of feathers, rapine
wit in love, dilatory injection of the process of gratitude might not
make love more possible when infinite.  The signs of brown buds
dressed for the table.  Mark: the appetite of self-regard in fad
of self-loathing, a formal disguise pretty upon us 
as a giant wheel, and steadfastly unrelated to her:
she has one heavy thigh curling over the other under a pale green
caftan, exuding a fixed smell, fairly happy and beautiful, she feels
the nice dropping dew point really.  But scatter to the neighborhood,
roll up its implements into an idealized removal like a wire fence
rolled across sand, almost 'fun'.  The pike of divorce shoots me in
fake steerage, shows up the country in epochal clamor with damned
unintended features casting pell-mell over endless series
of darkly luminescent hills.  A basic angel is spread over the 
ground.  In nicked capsules we waylay the necessities of loss
as coaxing for a present spirit which would then be forgotten
and of utterly no use.  Distance can so dangerously
relieve intense discolorations, marking its progress in reverse
of a bruise: the regard line tightens until my mother's face
recedes until it will recede properly, and not as an implement
of my wretched vanity.  And then.