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

    bodies.


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

    squirming.


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

    mind.


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:

    painted.


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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