FICTIONAL SALT BROOKE JUNE

​

This room has a warm left waking 

limb sleeping   

this

white noise like the air 

just came in

 

phantom morning time

 

    one shot in the pan of caught grain to the next

 

a slow dust or squandered smoke 

deprived of clean glass

in the face of strange chemistry

just what we digest and

reinvent 

 

Of what is unfolded 

the observance of I

is peeling

but

here—feels good 

 

memory: you know it’s somewhat

 

    show and tell and fictional salt

 

now at the back feels

unnerving

sculpted air, the language caries 

boughs of new voice   break

over time

 

This word will snuff up its dead— 

dead. 

dead. 

dead. 

dead.

dead.

dead.   

dead.           

This   is meaningful.

This   is meaningless.

 

This

 

is    all there is.