the first mistake was we believed our own publicity
we were gone and there was no finding us
not through protest not via mothers crying on TV
not through the spiel of indignation when elections loom—
we were gone so far from the seat of power that
this is what they call ‘disappeared’
we held ourselves quietly, with dignity we thought
though there was no one to see, we waited
as a chip waits for a lucky draw,
as the back end of an argument waits for the reveal
we waited, until we almost forgot ourselves,
until the hum and the haw of prevarication
was the rhythm it seemed of the seasons.
Will we be left in the lime slide of time
and what will they call us then?
Hell is an island of too many horizons.
A book called Enquire within about everything
has got to be framed by the devil.
The first ink drawing of the man with the longest nails in the world.
He cannot change his clothes, his nephews must help him to eat.
An overview of human teeth, separated by race,
herbivore apes on a sliding bar of comparison.
Twenty-seven varieties of sausage made from offal,
none including ground chicken feet.
Oh for the curlicue of an ornate majuscule.
Ah to feel a cursive stroke of light.
Here is the curl in N for New Ireland
Here is a list of the least important deaths.