from The Identity Event
A woman pushes her son in a stroller. The wheels go round.
The suburb beats on but dully.
In the distance, a plane. We point.
on the premise: nothing will happen
the night fall and all that
by the nothing that won’t
and the nothing that will.
So I heave my heart in my throat, with cocktails, pills,
small animals—accumulating what?
It’s too easy or too hard to make a show of it, the heart.
You can’t defend against a body
but who grows up with one?
Or the body around them bodes (this could happen
to you) or doesn’t: they don’t
turn into others, him an other or them, they—
Listen in for what we’re
going to do