Notes on Continuation

Michael Gross

Assembly required: I want all the bulbs in the room to work as well as a window.

Trisect: The bird’s head moves much like I imagine mine would if mirrors were see-through.

Burying bulbs: Registration is required at the entrance of vision: one is next, the other once.

Sung low: That satellite makes me think of entering atmospheres in flames: the orange dangle of


Broadsided: Trees topple tip-side last: roots-down let go, me holding the dirt he lowered in.

Visions & a bird: Slashing the tires into little leeches, sucking the curb and asphalt for more

    answers to questions.

Predated: The most impossible move, the owl reaches into the grass like I my pocket, and pulls out


Forts & showdowns: Saddlebags slump the back of the mare, snowing peaks jaw the mouse’s red


Foreordained: A tremendous blow renders the head a hundred apples tossed and staying: an

    orchard of memories.

After addiction: Slams the door, swallows the key, hangs a bag, climbs a vine, tramples the sore,

    and stitches hands to dicks.

The mouse of memory: A sandal means there is no use for this anymore, and she lays in bed

    crooning for bipeds.

The guns stop: Stomping on the grave, a gust of me snaps a tree's branch into toothpicks among

    the toothy stones.

Keys to the leeches: A bee on the forehead: thoughts swimming to a finger-press on the fish tank.

Saddlebags in the hips slump across the steering wheel and a stroke of family crosses lanes:


Satellite beaming: He is looking bashful, full of innuendoes and prophecies: the times we

    summered in the winter.

The finale, orchestrated by: The opaque apples of sound slim into a blue, a frame, and further yet,

    into clarity.




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